Snowbird's Rubicon
by sentinel28
Summary: The Snowbirds leave Sudeten for Operation Rubicon. All will give some...some will give all.
1. It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

**_SNOWBIRD'S RUBICON_**

**_Chapter 10 of the Snowbird Saga_**

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, I was going to wait a little longer before starting up a new chapter, but I got bored, watched _Gods and Generals _(where I got the idea for the opening quote and story arc title), and decided to quit wasting my time playing Madden and get back to writing. Plus my "real" book is now finished (though only God knows when and if it'll be published), and finals are still a week off, so I have a little time before the deluge. Though I don't know when or how often I'm going to be able to update over the next few weeks—after finals is convention season, and I'm hitting two in May. _

_ This story arc is likely to be long, possibly the longest so far, but this and the next one will set up the Snowbirds' final mission. I'll also be putting up a new battalion roster in a few chapters as well. Things are about to get very interesting—in the Chinese sense of the word—for the Snowbirds._

_ Thanks to Kat and Rouge kind of setting a fire under me on DeviantArt, and for everyone who reviewed the last chapter of _Snowbird's Revenge.

_ BTW, the "leader guy" having a Christmas dinner of beans and broth is a reference to Dick Winters, the leader of the now-legendary Easy Company of the 101st Airborne, the "Band of Brothers." I just finished a biography of him and I can safely say that his example of leadership will still be studied in the 31st Century._

* * *

_Then he broke the barriers of war and through the swollen river swiftly took his standards. And Caesar crossed the flood and reached the opposite bank. From Hesperia's forbidden fields he took his stand and said: "Here I abandon peace and desecrated law. Fortune, it is you I follow. Farewell to treaties. From now on…war is our judge."_

_ --Marcus Lucanus, _Pharsalia

_Reichenberg_

_Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_25 September 3051_

Max Canis-Vlata abruptly woke from a sound sleep. Unsure of exactly why he was now awake, he squinted at the clock. It read 4 AM. With the schedule clear, they could sleep in tomorrow; in fact, he had planned on it. He noticed he was alone, and that the light was on over the small table in the room. In the reflection of the mirror on the wall, he saw his wife Sheila sitting at the desk. She was in her robe, her hair not caught in its usual ponytail, but left to fall free to her shoulder blades. He always thought it made her look exotic, and for the thousandth time wondered how he could have been so lucky to get a girl like her. With that in mind, he simply stared at her for a long time.

Outside, Sudeten was undergoing its first winter storm—not a bad one, just enough to make things messy, cold, wet, and miserable. Inside, the room was warm. Sheila had her legs crossed under the chair, giving Max plenty of opportunity to regard their smooth musculature, while the shadows in the robe's front enticed him. However, the erotic thoughts Max was beginning to form abruptly ceased at the look on Sheila's face. It was one of intense concentration, and anger.

Max had come to realize that, in marrying Sheila Allegra Arla-Vlata, he had actually married two people: Sheila, his loving, playful, sweet wife, and Lieutenant Commander Arla-Vlata, the hard-edged, dynamic, even on occasion ruthless leader of the Snowbirds Special Missions Combined Arms Team. The two were often hard to reconcile. He loved them both deeply, but there were times the Commander bothered him. Involuntarily, his eyes fell to the artificial arm. It no longer bothered him when the cold steel touched him at night, and he understood Sheila's reasoning not to have it painted or covered in artificial skin: it served as a reminder that no one was untouchable. It also gave instant recognition that here was a woman who had seen the elephant, who had fought in combat and deserved respect. Still, he also wondered if it was a small reflection of Sheila's loss of innocence.

Max was always amazed at how innocent and even naïve MechWarriors could be. He knew it was because mentally, MechWarriors could put distance between themselves and their targets, and pretend that the enemy 'Mech was not piloted by a living, breathing human being. They could dodge it for a long time, even after watching a 'Mech explode under their guns and knowing, deep inside, that they had just killed another person. They could reassure themselves that maybe, in the confusion or the huge fireball, that the other warrior had managed to eject. Sooner or later, however, every MechWarrior found themselves face to face with the fact that they were, in the end, killers. For some, it didn't bother them at all and they even grew to relish the killing. For others, it broke them entirely and they never took the field again. Most dealt with it in their own way and moved on, but were never the same again; their own parents might not recognize them any longer.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Max blinked, coming out of his thoughts. Sheila glanced at him, then went back to jotting notes down with a pencil.

Max got out of bed and looked over her shoulder. "What's up?" He kissed her neck.

"Not now." She shrugged him off. "I'm busy."

"Busy." Max folded his arms.

"Yes."

"I see." Max took two steps back, then struck like a cobra. His fingers found Sheila's ribs, ran up and down them, then went after her armpits. Sheila bit her lip, struggled, then burst into laughter. She tried to get away, but now Max had her in a half-nelson and was nibbling at her earlobes, which was just as ticklish. "S-Stop…stop it!" she giggled. "Dammit, I'm trying to—I'm trying to work here!"

"So'm I."

"Let go, you horny—leave me—I'll bust my arm like Senefa did!" She was laughing too hard to break out of the hold, but finally Max decided he'd made his point and let loose. Sheila rearranged her robe. "You nymphomaniac!"

Max sat on the bed. "I am not. _Women_ are nymphomaniacs. Men have satyriasis."

"Oh. Well, that's what I get for marrying an intellectual."

Max pointed at the maps and printouts littering the table. "And that's what I get for marrying my commanding officer. What's so important that you're up at 4 AM being Bitch S. Patton?"

"Okay, okay…sorry." Sheila leaned back in the chair. "I couldn't sleep."

"Something bugging you?"

"Yeah." Sheila picked up a map of the Inner Sphere and showed it to him. She had filled in the planets that the Clans were known to have taken. "According to the brief we got the other day, we can expect the Clans to renew the offensive at any time. The AFFC now has something like forty regiments on the line. The Rasalhagians have about a third of that. We don't know what Kurita has, but we can assume they have just as many as the AFFC does."

"Makes sense that the Wolves might break through in the center."

"That's true, but that's not really what I'm getting at." She handed him the map, then adopted the pose of Rodin's famous _Thinker_ statue. "Now, my genius of a lovah, what would _George_ S. Patton, Dwight D. Eisenhower, or hell, Alexsandr Kerensky think if they saw that map?"

Max stared at the map for a moment, then turned it on its side, so that the Clan breakthrough came from the "east," rather than coreward, galactic "north," facing towards the center of the Milky Way. "The Ardennes."

"Exactly."

Max nodded with her. Though it had taken place just over a thousand years ago, the events of World War II, what some referred to as the "Hitler War," was still extensively studied as the basis for mechanized warfare. At the Nagelring and the New Avalon Military Academy, the Germans' doomed Ardennes offensive of December 1944 was held up as an object lesson of never underestimating an enemy, even when that enemy appeared to be all but beaten. It was also used as a lesson on how to defend a breach with minimal personnel. "I see your point. We've massed all our regiments at the front of the Clans' line, but little at the shoulders."

"Right. But the first rule of defending a breach that they taught us at the 'Ring was that you hold at the shoulders, wait for your enemy to exhaust himself, then attack and cut him off. Instead of having a deep penetration, you end up encircling the enemy—you turn potential disaster into opportunity." Sheila spread her hands. "So why aren't we doing that?"

"Sheila, you do realize that the AFFC High Command is made up of guys like Morgan Hasek-Davion and Hanse Davion who know a thing or two about strategy, right?"

Sheila gave him a dirty look, then sighed. "Yeah, you're right. It just doesn't seem right, that's all. We should be attacking the Clans, not sitting around waiting for them to hit us. It's too much like leaning into a punch to the face."

"We tried attacking, hon. You _do_ remember Planting."

"And Twycross, sure." Sheila abruptly stood up and began to pace. "I know it's dumb to get all worked up by this. It's not like we can win the war all by our lonesome. I just hate _sitting_ here."

"We just got back from Vantaa not that long ago."

"I know, I know..." Sheila sat on the bed next to Max, who hugged her. Operation Sun Dragon had provided a sort of closure for her. It had wrapped up loose ends. There was no longer Athena Henderson to haunt Sheila's dreams, and the Snowbirds as a whole felt they had made up at least partially for being kicked off the planet. And with Duke Bonner dead, there was less of a chance of a fire in the rear as well. It had cemented Senefa Malthus as a member of the Snowbirds. Except for one loose end, Sheila and Max could face the future squarely, with no thought to what lay behind.

That loose end had red hair and stood a little over three feet tall. Louisa Keynes had become inseparable from Sheila and Max on the way home, and they had the experience of parents who have their lovemaking abruptly interrupted by a little voice saying she had a bad dream, which left nothing to do but get dressed discreetly and allow the little girl to sleep nestled between them. There were times that both of them had regretted the spur of the moment decision to suddenly become parents, though Louisa had proven in a short week to be a model child, and quite independent—she dressed herself, she went to bed on time, and she was respectful to her elders. She was still a six-year old kid: she talked to her stuffed bunny rabbit (restored to full health by an eerily doting Marion Rhialla and a sewing kit), she loved to jump on the bed and play horsey games with Max, and she had gotten into a spirited game of tag with Maysa Bari on the zero-G deck of the _Minerva,_ where Louisa had twisted and turned and tumbled and giggled to her heart's content. That was good for her, but she rarely cried over her dead parents and twin sister, which Sheila and Max wondered at, and when she smiled or laughed, it never seemed to make it to her eyes. She was also developing what they considered an unhealthy interest in BattleMechs. Most six year olds were content with Thomas the Tank and Boo Boo Kitty, but Louisa had been found one morning leafing through technical readouts in rapt fascination.

The problem was that now every decision Sheila and Max had to make also had to take into account Louisa. Sheila found herself discarding mental plans for 'Mech offensives as being too risky, and Max—who did the family finances because of Sheila's complete ineptitude at balancing a checkbook—now had to take into account a six-year old's voracious appetite and sweet tooth. He had mused to Sheila the day before that Louisa was capable of obliterating pocky candy at a rate of three boxes every 24 hours. The only reason Louisa was not with them now was because she was staying the weekend with Sheila's parents. (Which in itself was a minor problem. When Louisa had been dropped off at her newfound grandparents, the look on Calla and Arla's face was one that promised Sheila gleeful revenge for all the time their only daughter had made _her_ parents' life hellish.) There was also the fact that the AFFC wanted as many civilians off Sudeten as possible, especially the families of 'Mech units: most war orphans like Louisa were being sent off to special centers far back towards the central parts of the Lyran half of the Federated Commonwealth, out of what was hoped was the attack vector of the Clans. Not even Sheila or Calla was going to be able to make the argument that Louisa was a special case; the other children of the Sentinels had been left behind on Grunwald, the Sentinels' homeworld. While Sheila and Max understood the reasoning behind that, they had managed to establish a rapport with the little girl and wanted that to continue. Both of them had seen far too many hollow-eyed orphans in centers and camps across the Inner Sphere. Most were lucky enough to be adopted out, but some would spend their entire lives in camps—or penal battalions, where far too many ended up.

Max looked at the map again, mainly to get his mind of his daughter of two weeks. "You know," he said into the silence, "I think you're onto something with this Battle of the Bulge idea, Sheila." He traced a finger down to Terra. "If the Clans are going for Terra, this is going to end up like a funnel. Senefa says that the first ones to take Terra win the prize and become the ilClan—whatever the hell that is—so they're not going to be paying much attention to their flanks as everybody runs for the finish line. I remember Patton saying something about having the balls to let the Germans go all the way to Paris during the Bulge. Maybe we should have the balls to let them go all the way to Terra." Max smirked. "Certainly give those assholes at ComStar something to think about. I don't like how the third-largest army in the Inner Sphere is sitting on its behind."

Sheila nodded. It was peculiar. The ComGuards had the numbers and their equipment was the best in the Inner Sphere, outside of the Clans themselves. It was true that many of their warriors were green, but it was better than nothing. Ten or twenty ComGuard regiments at any one place on the front lines could spell the difference between victory and defeat. Yet ComStar was remaining neutral. The general consensus among the Sentinels and other units was that ComStar was either practicing suicidal pacifism or, worse, was working with the Clans. Since ComStar had a near monopoly on interstellar communications, the thought of them turning against the rest of the Inner Sphere was enough to chill the blood. "True enough," she said. Her fingers marched over the map as well. "Question is, are we Bastogne?"

"Heh. I hope not. Of course, we've got plenty of supplies here. Did you ever read that one book where the leader guy's Christmas dinner is a couple of beans and hot broth? At least we'll eat good."

Sheila started to laugh, then suddenly she seized the map from Max and looked at it intensely. "My God…" she breathed, "that's it. That's it."

"What's it?" Max asked.

"That's it!" Sheila shot to her feet and grabbed at her notes like a drowning man going for a life preserver. "How the hell did I not see that? Of course! It's clear as a damn bell now!"

Max looked at his wife. "Sheila," he said in all seriousness, "have you lost your mind?"

She stopped scribbling and looked over her shoulder at him with a grin. "Probably." She went over to him and drew him to his feet. "Supplies, Max."

"Uh huh." He was not following her.

"Supplies. The Clans use supplies just like we do…and from what Senefa tells me, they tend to be a bit prolifigate with them. After all, their supply lines are secure, and the Clan homeworlds are untouched. They can keep churning out war stuff with no threat from us, because we don't know where they are." That had been the first question the AFFC had asked Senefa: _where are the Clan homeworlds?_ The problem was, Senefa didn't know. Warriors were not given that information for precisely in case they were captured. The Clan homeworlds were a carefully guarded secret not even Jaime Wolf knew. "But we do know where the Clans are caching their supplies!"

"We do?"

Sheila half-sobered. "Well, okay. _We_ don't. But I bet MIIO does. They knew when Vantaa was getting a scheduled run. I bet if they don't know, they can find out." Sheila's finger stabbed at the map, now lying forgotten on the floor. "We can raid them, Max!"

"We?"

"The Snowbirds! This is right up our alley. We can wreck their supply chain. That's one of the reasons why the Germans couldn't break through in the Ardennes! They ran out of gas!" She put a finger on his lips. "I know what you're going to say—'Mechs don't run on gas. But they need ammo, and the Clans don't seem to think much of shooting it off everywhere. And MechWarriors and Elementals have to eat. We can really do some damage, Max. We can make _them_ look over their shoulders! We can _attack!"_

"Sheila, calm down." He kissed her nose. "Okay, I agree with you. We can at least run it past your dad and Morgan…if they don't mind being bothered on a Sunday, anyway." He glanced at the chronometer. "Speaking of your dad, when are we supposed to pick up Louisa?"

"Oh, around dinnertime."

"Plenty of time then." He reached down and unknotted the bow of her robe. "I'm sorry, Commander, but all this talk of attack and penetrations has seriously turned me on." He slid the robe off her shoulders. It was warm in the room; Sheila had not worn her pajamas that night. Or anything else. Sheila smiled, reached down, and slid off his boxers.

"You're a satyr, Max."


	2. In the Footsteps of Doolittle

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Short and sweet this time, because where I'm going next really throws off this part of the chapter. _

_ Some history lessons in here for ya. (I've got to use that history degree somehow…) There's some Battletech history in here as well: Morgan Hasek-Davion's raid on Sian that recovered Justin Xiang Allard in 3030, the Battle on Kittery just before that (which I may have gotten wrong, because the Sentinels supposedly were on Crossing as well, and the two battles may have been simutaneous), as well as the brawl between Wolf's Dragoons and McCarron's Armored Cavalry over the Theban Sacred Band (mentioned in the _Wolf's Dragoons Sourcebook_), and Morgan's love of good scotch. The desertion of mercenaries against the Clans is mentioned in _Objective Raids.

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_SulliMike: Don't be too praising just yet. Morgan points out some problems with Sheila's strategy in this chapter._

_Fraser: Well, the Snowbirds aren't too interested in Clantech…yet._

_4477: What? Marion has a gentle side. And I see someone else knows the story of the Rubicon…_

_Panzerfaust: That's commonly known as a mistake. (Whoops.) I'm guessing Patton would be still taught—Hanse Davion mentions in one of the _Warrior_ books that he got the idea for the Fourth Succession War from Patton._

_GreenKnight: Thank you._

_Noveltigger: Aww…thanks. The name of the novel is _Cold Steel,_ but it'll be at least next year before it gets published. (You have to convince the publisher that it'll make money.)_

_Rouge: Not at all. I was looking over yours and Kat Wylder's stories and thinking, "Hey, I should be writing and not playing Madden and GTA!" _

_MUSIC DEPARTMENT: Beats me. I'm listening to the Thompson Twins right now, which is totally inappropriate. _

* * *

_AFFC Headquarters, Reichenberg_

_Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_27 September 3051_

Morgan Hasek-Davion ran his hands through his red hair, still worn long and loose over his uniform's shoulders. He then looked up at Sheila Arla-Vlata and Calla Bighorn-Vlata. "Let me get this straight, Miss Arla-Vlata. You intend to take your battalion, strike supply caches in the Clan occupied zones, raid from one end of the zones to the other, come out in Kurita space, refit, and do it again on the way back?"

"Yes, sir," Sheila answered. "I'm not sure about doing it on the way back. We may be too shot up. But I'd like to at least keep the option open."

Morgan glanced at the map again. "You don't have any set planets to strike."

"No, sir. I'll need intel on where the best planets are."

"I see. And you're going to do this with two companies of BattleMechs."

"No, sir," Sheila repeated. "I've talked to my father about it. The Snowbirds will be getting a company of tanks and infantry, and I'd like to recruit a third company of MechWarriors. That'll give us an overstrength battalion."

"And of course you'll want to negotiate a new contract for the additional warriors." This with a look at Calla.

"We'd have to do that anyway," Calla told Morgan. "The Sentinels absorbed the defunct 719th Striker Regiment a few months ago, before Vantaa, and we're getting new recruits every day." Calla didn't feel like mentioning why. At least a dozen mercenary regiments had either opted not to renew their contracts or had simply packed up and deserted, trusting that other Houses and Periphery realms would take them on. They simply did not want to fight the Clans. That number only accounted for the big "name" mercenaries, like Gregg's Long Striders or the Lone Star Regiment. Many other smaller units had also left. The Clans were inflicting casualties on the AFFC without even fighting. The AFFC could make good some of the losses with additional drafts and an increased number of volunteers, but it simply could not replace veteran mercenaries with battle experience. The good news was that many MechWarriors didn't agree with their commanders and chose to stay on, leaving their present regiments for new employers, such as the Sentinels. "I'm going to be able to fit out a new battalion as it is, and the move of the treadheads to the Snowbirds has been in the making for a year now. Sheila's agreed to do the hiring of her third company on her own."

"Hm. Well, the AFFC certainly isn't adverse to throwing money at you, Calla," Morgan grinned. "We can just take it out of the pay of Hermann's Hermits or Vandelay's Valkyries or some other cowards." Calla smiled, though inwardly he thought that Morgan was being a little unfair. Mercenaries lived and died according to their 'Mechs, and only the luckiest, like the Kell Hounds, Wolf's Dragoons, and the Eridani Light Horse, could replace losses virtually at will. The others were doomed to bankruptcy if they lost badly even once. Added to the news that some of the Clans, such as the Ghost Bears and Smoke Jaguars, were killing mercenaries out of hand did not help matters.

Morgan took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out. "All right, Sheila. Assuming I agree to this, and I haven't, why?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Sheila was a little stunned. Her first thought was to say that it was blindingly obvious why she wanted to do this, but Lieutenant Commanders didn't lip off to Marshals. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Let me be blunt." Morgan leaned forward. Sheila was tall, but Morgan was even taller and far more bulky, all of it muscle. "Are you doing this as a stunt? Maybe a bit of feathering of the nest for after the war?" Ignoring Sheila's rapidly reddening face, he idly traced an arc through the holomap projected to one side of them. "Because I tell you, Sheila, I take one look at this idea and I see Jeb Stuart riding around the Union Army when he should've been covering Robert E. Lee's ass at Gettysburg. And the fight that's coming here on Sudeten's going to make Gettysburg look like a henhouse skirmish." He half-smiled. "Yes, you two. The Vlata family isn't the only one that can quote ancient military history verbatim. I need every warrior, every 'Mech, right here. I'm just as sick of retreating as you are, and I want to halt the damn Jade Falcons at Sudeten."

"But that's just the point I'm trying to make!" Sheila half-rose out of the chair, though she was stopped from doing so by a subtle hand from her father. "Marshal…with respect…" she added quickly, "that's our problem. We keep thinking defensively."

"We tried thinking offensively, Sheila," Morgan said patiently.

"And we won—"

"_Barely._ We won on Twycross because Kai Allard managed to sucker the Falcon Guards into a mass grave, and Planting was such a bloodbath that we can't repeat it. Nothing on you, Calla," Morgan reassured the other man, because much of the planning for Planting had been from Calla. "The Clans are simply too powerful for us to go after on their own home ground right now. Once we grind them up, let them batter themselves against us, _then_ we can go on the offensive. Right now, it's just not feasible."

"Yes, sir, I understand that," Sheila replied. "But I just can't sit here and wait for them to hit us. There's just something…_wrong_ about it. You just can't win a war that way, sir."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "And how many wars have you been in, Sheila?" He nodded. "That's right: one. Now I understand you're all red hot from the Nagelring, but it may shock you to know that there are people up here with stars on our shoulders who do know what we're doing."

"I am _not_ some hotrock cadet, sir." Sheila said it with just a tinge of respect, and for emphasis let her artificial arm thump loudly on Morgan's desk.

"Don't, Sheila. I'm letting you talk to me like that because I like you and I respect your father. But I don't think you want to have two court-martials on your record for insubordination." Morgan sighed. "All right, listen. I want you to do two things, Sheila. First, recruit your third company. I like the idea of a four-company mixed battalion and I'd like to see how it would work against the Clanners. Second, come up with a _solid_ plan. I'll let you look at some MIIO stuff. Get back to me in two weeks. If you have a good plan, I might approve it—I say again, might. If it stinks, I'll tell you so, and I'll expect no backtalk on it. Okay?"

Sheila was still seething about the court-martial remark; she had done her best to forget that part of her career, but evidently no one else had. Still, she had to consider herself lucky. A lot of generals would've already had Sheila either thrown out, arrested, and/or committed to a mental ward by now. Morgan was at least willing to listen. "Yes, sir," she said, subdued.

"Right, then. Dismissed." He stood, returned her salute, and watched her stalk out of the door, then resumed his seat. He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head, and smiled at Calla, who looked a little discomfited. "That's some fireball you have there, Calla."

"I apologize for her mouth," Calla said tightly. "Sheila knows better than that."

Morgan got up, waving it off. "She should, but I can't get too riled up over it. I was just as much of a smartass when I was 20 as she is. And just like her, I thought I could win the war by myself." He crossed over to a cabinet, opened it, and reached for a bottle of liquor. "Drink, Calla? I have some sipping whiskey here. I prefer scotch, but it'll do."

"Yes, sir, I'll take a glass."

Morgan poured them both a few fingers of whiskey. "Enough with the sir, Calla. We breathed too much smoke together on Kittery and in '39 for that." He handed Calla the glass. "Always wondered why you didn't finagle your way onto my raid on Sian."

"Jaime Wolf was borrowing my JumpShip at the time. That and I honestly didn't think you were coming back."

Morgan laughed. "Roger that. I guess that's why I'm being a little hard on Sheila." He regarded the holomap over his whiskey. "I won't admit it to her, but Sheila's right. We'll never win the war on the defensive. Where she's wrong is that we can't win it by raiding, either, and we damn sure can't win it with a general offensive—yet. But a lot of this idea of hers reminds me of my attack on Sian, and I don't mean that in a good way." He leaned back in the chair and put his boots up on the desk. "Calla, when I look back on that raid, I get the chills. If Max Liao hadn't been half-crazy and the Liao military so hidebound, he could've wiped us out in an hour. It worked only because it was so insane that no one thought it could be done."

Calla pounced. "Kind of like Sheila's idea."

Morgan saluted him with the glass. "Touche, Calla. Except that the Clans aren't as stupid as Liao. We found that out on Blackjack. They react quick as all hell, and they will chew Sheila up if she's not careful." He sipped at the whiskey. "Well, you were kind of quiet during the brief, Calla. I thought you'd have more to say."

"It's Sheila's show. I'm not stealing my daughter's thunder. The other reason is that I don't think it'll work the way Sheila wants to."

That took Morgan by surprise. "You're serious? Why didn't you try talking her out of it?"

Calla chuckled and took a drink. "Because short of knocking Sheila unconscious, it's hard to talk her out of something when she gets her mind set on it. She gets it from her mother," Calla explained, forgetting that he was known to be a bit hardheaded himself. "Over 20 years of arguing with my daughter, I can tell you that there are two ways of changing her mind. One is a couple of swats on the behind, which she's too old for right now. The second is to let her do it, and try not to let her hang herself."

"Thank God Kyra and I only had sons." Morgan sat up and leaned forward. "Okay then, Calla, why don't you think it'll work?"

"The Clans aren't going to leave their supplies out for someone to simply come in and destroy them. If they've got any sense at all, and they do, they're going to have decentralized supply lines. They'll have plenty of bases and supply caches on all their occupied worlds. I think Sheila is right that the Clan rear areas are pretty thinly manned, though."

Morgan nodded. "So do I. Sheila's got a great intel source in Senefa Malthus. Go on."

"The problem is, the Snowbirds can wreck and burn and generally raise nelly-hell in the Clan rear areas. That's a good thing tactically, but strategically, Morgan, you're right. It's a stunt. Oh, it might cause some disruption in the Clans, but it's not going to stop them, and I doubt it's going to set back their schedule one minute."

"But you support it. C'mon, Calla, you're not that good of a poker player. I can tell."

"True." Calla finished the whiskey and got up to look at the holomap. "Your historical analogy is wrong, Morgan. It's not Stuart at Gettysburg. It's the Doolittle Raid."

Morgan's eyebrows beetled in confusion. "The do little raid? Doesn't sound like something I'd support."

"No, no—Doolittle. One word, as in a name."

"Oh. Pray, continue." Morgan settled into his chair. Most military men—good ones, at any rate—studied history and could get into debates, arguments, and outright brawls over historical minutiae. He remembered hearing a story about a battalion-sized bar brawl between Wolf's Dragoons and McCarron's Armored Cavalry over the Theban Sacred Band, a unit of homosexual warriors who had been annilihated at Charonea in 338 BC, well over three thousand years ago. (Of course, the brawl had been over a member of the Dragoons comparing the MAC _to_ the Thebans.) However, Calla Bighorn-Vlata was known for a knowledge of history that tenured college professors at NAIS would be envious of. He liked to use historical analogies in his briefings, and it was obvious that his daughter did as well. Still, even if Calla was wrong, Morgan knew he'd come out of it a little more knowledgeable than before.

"All right. The Doolittle Raid took place in 1942, during World War II—the Hitler War, if you like. As you may remember from your time at NAMA, the United States started out on the ropes in that war. Pearl Harbor and Bataan had really hurt them, and it looked as if Imperial Japan was beating them pretty handily. Morale at the home front was low.

"So this man James Doolittle, a very respected airman, came up with a plan to attack Japan itself, using medium bombers from seaborne aircraft carriers. Nothing like it had even been thought of, which meant that the Japanese weren't expecting it—but Doolittle pulled it off, and struck Tokyo and other Japanese cities _in broad daylight._"

"Exceptional," Morgan commented. "How many got back?"

"They had to crashland in China, but almost all of them returned." Calla pondered the holomap. "My point of all this is, Morgan, that the raid itself did basically no damage to the Japanese war industry. You can't do much with sixteen planes. It'd be like us bombing Luthien with a squadron of aerofighters." Calla raised a finger like an admonishing professor. "The damage that Doolittle did was psychological. It proved to the American people that yes, they _could_ win, that the Japanese could be beaten. To the Japanese, it proved that they weren't safe, even at home. A few months later, the Americans won the Battle of Midway, and less than a year later the Battle of Guadalcanal. After that, the Japanese were just prolonging the inevitable American victory."

Calla shrugged. "Now, Morgan, I'm not so proud a father that I think Sheila's going to win the war with her raid. In fact, I know she won't. But we both know that morale is kinda low right now among the Inner Sphere. Sure, Duke Bonner's death and other things have pissed people off and they're volunteering to fight. Yet being pissed off and having hope are two different things. Kurita samurai get pissed off and make banzai charges, but they still lose. So maybe, if Sheila can at least show the FedCom people that we're not just sitting on our ass, letting the Clans dictate where and how we fight, and show that the Clans can get beat, that's something. If nothing else, maybe we get the Clans looking over their shoulder, just like the Japanese started doing."

Morgan thought in silence for a long time. "I kind of like that idea. I'm sick of those bastards having everything their own way." He finished his own whiskey. "Well, Calla…I still want to see her plan. But I have to say, I am warming to it." He got up and slapped Calla on the back. "You should've been a college professor. Why didn't you go that route?"

"College profs don't get enough tail," Calla said in all honesty.


	3. New Names, New Faces

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, to make up for last time, this one is _long._ I feel a little bad about this chapter, since I used some dialogue and situations out of _The Wild Geese._ Still, it's appropriate, and the characters are original, though their motivations are probably too repetitive. I didn't get the idea of this chapter from _The Wild Geese,_ though; actually, I was watching the NFL Draft last weekend and got to thinking, "Hey, what if these guys were MechWarriors?"_

_A lot of Battletech minutiae in this, but I figure that people who read this stuff like that. The mercenary community in Battletech seems to actually be somewhat close-knit, so the various units know each other. And yes, the brief mention of "Pete Aron" is a reference to _Grand Prix_ (another classic movie) and the name "Kahvi" refers back to my favorite _ElfQuest_ character. _

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_SulliMike: There were units that raided the Clans, according to _Blood Legacy;_ Ulric Kerensky mentions to Phelan that he's tired of rear-area raids at one point. (And I apologize—I think I kind of harshed on you in my last response.) Of course, the whole Snowbird Saga is supposed to take place "between the pages" of the Blood of Kerensky and other Battletech books, so their impact on the war is minimal compared to the big battles on Luthien and elsewhere, as you mention. But every little bit helps…_

_4477: You probably know more about the real Rubicon than I do. My knowledge of the Roman Empire is sadly lacking. I know Napoleon and WWII, but man, Caesar loses me._

_GreenKnight: Well, you're probably right. And thanks for the mention of Corregidor. I did mention Bataan earlier in this story arc, and you'd better believe it's going to be a big part of later ones._

_MUSIC CORNER: Maybe "Autobots" from _Transformers_ or "Veteran of the Psychic Wars" by Blue Oyster Cult from the _Heavy Metal_ soundtrack_. _Pretty rare, but if you're familiar with the Tim Malloys (an Irish band out of Minneapolis), their "Twa' Recruitin' Sergeants" would be pretty appropriate too._

* * *

_Hyatt Regency Reichenberg_

_Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_3 October 3051_

"Thank you," Sheila Arla-Vlata said to the MechWarrior that stood in front of her. "We'll be in touch." The MechWarrior came to attention, stomped his feet, saluted, about-faced, and walked out. Sheila waited until the door closed behind him, then threw down her pencil onto the table in front of her. "When hell freezes," she added quietly.

Max solemnly nodded. "That was number eleven." He nodded to Frederick Matria, who hit a button on his laptop. The name of the man who had just been in was erased.

"How many are on the list?" Senefa Malthus asked.

"We're down to twelve," Matria replied with a sigh. "What was wrong with that last guy?"

"Nothing," Sheila said, "except that he was married and has six kids."

"What's wrong with that? We've got married couples. Hell, you guys just adopted." Matria nodded at Sheila and Max.

"The marriage part isn't a big deal," Elfa Brownoak answered him. "It's the kids. What we're going to be doing is going to be dangerous as hell. We don't need to make any more orphans." She involuntarily glanced at Sheila, then quickly turned away before she hoped her commander noticed. Elfa had not approved of Sheila's choice, and though she kept quiet about it, Sheila and Max both knew it. Many of the Snowbirds privately, and a few publicly, wondered what their "commanding couple," as they fondly referred to Sheila and Max, had been thinking, adopting. But they kept it within the battalion.

"What about that other fella—Pete Aron?" Matria asked, looking at Sheila's handwritten notes. "He seemed solid, and he didn't have kids or a wife."

"No friggin' way," Marion Rhialla growled from her position next to the door. "I saw the look in that bastard's eye. He was looking for a free ride. I'd say at least half the jerks we've interviewed so far were looking for that."

Sheila rubbed her eyes. The Snowbirds had put out the word that they were looking for some good MechWarriors, over and above what the Sentinels themselves were looking for, four days before. Sudeten was filled with MechWarriors, with a 'Mech and Dispossessed, who were looking for a new unit. The great mercenary hiring hall was on Outreach, home of Wolf's Dragoons, where the Dragoons operated the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission that handled most above-board recruitment. Others, with less savory reputations, frequented Galatea, the infamous "Mercenary's Star." Though those were the two big places to hire individual mercs or whole units, nearly every planet with a 'Mech garrison in the Inner Sphere had mercenaries looking for work. The exceptions were the Free Rasalhague Republic, where mercenaries were disliked, and the Draconis Combine of House Kurita, where mercenaries were unwelcome to the point of death by the samurai of that realm. Many mercenaries gave up the merc lifestyle and "went regular," joining House units for a hitch or two, more in need of a paycheck and a meal than the freedom that a merc's life supposedly offered. Sudeten was just such a planet: it was obvious that the planet was becoming the focal point of the Federated Commonwealth's defensive frontier against the Clans, and MechWarriors willing to face the Clans flocked to the planet, trying to "catch a ride," as the merc vernacular went. Most would be successful, since even House units were willing to look the other way on even criminal records if the MechWarrior was skilled; there were too many open gaps in the ranks.

The Snowbirds had to be a bit more discerning. Sheila knew, as the others in the room did, just what the battalion would be facing. Only the best could be accepted; anything less would get quickly exploited and most likely killed by the Clans. Sheila had decided against a formal announcement, but rather spread the hiring offer by word of mouth, which was quicker anyway; the offer was to join an elite unit that would be facing the Clans "on independent operations," a watchword for raiding. It was also, more quietly, let known that those who the Snowbirds hired could expect an exciting and quite possibly short life. That turned away those who weren't much interested in adventure, but brought more in who craved it. MechWarriors were often adrenaline junkies, and whatever the Snowbirds were going to do, it certainly offered a danger high. 117 MechWarriors had applied, turning in their personnel files with the Sentinels.

From that list, Sheila had gathered her "brain trust": Max, of course; Marion Rhialla and Elfa Brownoak, two veterans who had nearly sixty years of experience between them; Frederick Matria, whose hacker skills were needed for background checks on the files; and Senefa Malthus, who could spot a liar from a kilometer away. Matria had, over the course of a day, eliminated 46 of the candidates as security risks: people who looked a little too good to be true and might hide anything from petty criminal records to Maskirovka assassins of Romano Liao, or people who had been heard talking about their prospective Snowbird "ride" in bars. People like that were also likely to have loose lips when it came to security matters. A further 23 were crossed off the list because they were what Marion called "hotrocks," MechWarriors with brand spanking new military academy diplomas, BattleMechs that were gifts or inheritances from rich parents, and youthful overconfidence that would simply get them killed in their first battle, assuming they didn't flee their first time under fire. The Snowbirds needed veterans, people who had seen the elephant and been shot at. That left 48 MechWarriors who looked like they might pass the bar. The brain trust had assembled at eight o'clock that morning. Max had jokingly called it the "Snowbirds Draft," and Sheila had to admit it did kind of feel like the combat football draft that was always eagerly watched in the Lyran Commonwealth.

It was now nearly four in the afternoon, and there were only a dozen left.

Of the 36 that had been interviewed so far, only three had been hired. One was a woman named Glynnis Griffin, who had immediately assured them that she piloted her own _Panther _and not a _Griffin_, thank you very much. After that, she had quietly handed Sheila a handwritten note from Sheila's old company commander, Catherine Houndlikov. It had stated simply, "_Ms. Griffin saved my life on Highspire during the Fourth War. Deny her nothing_." That had been an easy choice, despite the fact that Houndlikov had not mentioned how or what unit Griffin had been in when she had achieved that feat. A phone call to verify was all it took. The second had been a man, Michelangelo Burke, who had been with the 12th Star Guards on Vantaa, which almost immediately gained him a nod; the third had been a jovial MechWarrior, Tam Seneca, who had prior service with the Sentinels, had gotten mixed up with a Rasalhagian unit during the retreat off Rasalhague, and had just now managed to find the unit after over a year of being shuttled to and fro fighting Clan Wolf. Again, it had been an easy choice. Griffin, Burke, and Seneca had been first, second, and third, and it looked like, as Max had said, a nice, deep draft.

Since then it had all been downhill. Some, like Peter Aron, had immediately aroused Marion's suspicion. It was by no means uncommon for mercenaries to hire on with a unit, fight a battle or two, get their 'Mech fixed up, and then either buy out their contract or simply desert, leaving the unit holding the bag. Others had been too flippant, responding to Sheila's questions with contempt for her youth, or simply acting like they didn't care one way or another if the Snowbirds hired them. A few had gone the other direction, and been too enthusiastic; one older man, wearing the faded patch of the Knights of St. Cameron, had responded to Sheila's question of "Why do you want to join the Snowbirds?" by dropping to one knee and giving an embarrassed Sheila his eternal fealty on the honor of the ancient rulers of the Star League, the Cameron family. Marion had politely and quickly escorted the man out. That had been a little too fanatic. Finally, some had been eliminated simply because they were family men, for the reasons Elfa had outlined. But the day was getting on, and the Snowbirds still had a lot of spots to fill, if they were going to move up to a full battalion.

Sheila let out a long sigh. "Okay, Marion, show in the next person."

"Right." Marion opened the door and walked into the large antechamber to the converted office. The dozen left still waited there. Marion consulted her holoclipboard absently as she walked to the front of the room. As she did so, a young tow-headed man leapt from the chair and snapped to attention. Marion stopped. He had been doing that all day, whenever she or another Snowbird officer had passed. "You," she said, pointing to him, though she knew he wasn't next on the list. "Follow me." He gave a sharp nod, followed Marion into the office, and came to ramrod attention as the door closed behind him.

"State your name, last rank, last unit, age, and home planet," Marion barked out.

"Polycutt, Daniel. Former Lieutenant, Vandelay's Valkyries. 23 years old. Rahne, Federated Commonwealth." Polycutt's response was clipped, like a cadet's on a parade ground.

"I know of Faith Vandelay," Elfa put in, her voice full of suspicion. "She doesn't promote 23 year olds to lance command."

"Yes, Major," Polycutt replied, having accurately read her rank off the shoulder boards. He kept his eyes fixed on a spot above and behind Sheila's head. "I received a battlefield promotion on Wyatt in 3049." Elfa's eyebrows went up, and she wasn't alone. That meant Polycutt had gotten a lance when he was only 21. That was unheard of in veteran mercenary units like the Valkyries. Sheila looked over at Matria, who was rapidly typing away. He stopped, looked up, and nodded. Polycutt wasn't lying.

"Where did you go to school?" Max asked.

"Nagelring, sir. Class of 3047."

"Why did you join a mercenary regiment then?"

"My father was in Free Skye, sir."

Sheila tapped her pencil against her chin. That explained one thing, at least: the Free Skye Movement, Duke Samuel Bonner and Ryan Steiner's bunch, had done much to upset both Hanse Davion and Melissa Steiner-Davion, to the point where officers connected to the movement had found themselves relegated to militia units or kicked out of the AFFC altogether. "You didn't take a militia assignment?" she asked.

"With respect, ma'am. I didn't go to school for four years to get fat in some March Militia unit. I went to school to become a MechWarrior and fight. I resigned my commission and got on with the Valkyries. Again, with respect, ma'am."

Sheila nodded, impressed. "Is that why you left the Valkyries and came here? To fight?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Personal vendetta against the Clans?"

Polycutt looked surprised. "No, ma'am. Just want to fight. They're invading my home, and I don't want to run away, ma'am."

"You could go regular."

"Yes, ma'am. If I never wanted to be promoted, ma'am."

Marion stepped forward and was nearly in Polycutt's face. "What do you think of Free Skye, mister?"

"With respect, ma'am, I don't give a shit one way or the other. Politics is for politicians."

That brought a smile to Marion's face. She looked at Sheila. "You have your own 'Mech?" Polycutt replied in the affirmative. "What do you pilot?"

"_Dervish,_ ma'am. DV-7D."

Sheila whistled softly. The _Dervish_ was a Davion light fire support 'Mech, fairly mobile but not terribly well-armored. It was not something to go hunting Clan Omnis with. One look at Polycutt, however, and she knew he was more than willing to try. She looked over at the others. They approved. "Okay, MechWarrior Polycutt," she told him, "you're in. Report to the base at 0700 tomorrow morning with your gear."

"Ma'am." He had never gone to at ease—none of them had asked him to—so he simply saluted, turned on one foot, and left. But he couldn't hide the smile on his face.

* * *

Marion had gone down the list and the next person looked like another dud. She had been chewing gum loudly in the other room, and her hair was dyed jet black and combed over in classic goth-punk. Sheila glanced at her fingernails, and wasn't surprised. They were painted black as well. Her ears were pierced at least seven times each. Still, she stood at firm attention.

"Holliday, Kassy," she said. "MechWarrior, Black Cat Lancers. 22 years old. New Oslo."

Sheila consulted her notes. There had been several Black Cat Lancers on the list, a merc unit that had gone up against Clan Wolf on Radstadt and paid the price. The commander had been so badly wounded she had to be medically retired, and the remnants of the Lancers had been summarily kicked out of the Free Rasalhague Republic for no other reason than they were mercenaries who lost. Most had just enough money to make it to Sudeten with their 'Mechs. "Did you fight on Radstadt?"

"Damn straight. Got three kills."

"Say 'ma'am,'" Marion snapped. "Officer on parade."

"Ma'am." It came out as a snarl.

"You got a problem with rank?" Max's voice was just as harsh as Marion's.

"No, _sir._ I'll take orders with the best of 'em. Just orders that make sense."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"On Radstadt, _sir_, some dumbshit Rasalhagian line officer right out of the academy led us into an ambush. Miss Sheridan—" Holliday referred to the erstwhile commander of the Lancers "—told him the Wolves were waiting. He didn't believe her. He was the first down…but not the last, sir. Not the last." Her voice softened.

"How many?" Elfa asked, gently.

"Thirty, ma'am." Holliday suddenly took a deep breath, obviously fighting tears. "We were a good unit, ma'am, with our own good flag. Fought hard. My daddy fought with the Lancers until he got killed during the Ronin War in '44. Mom died a couple of years after that." Holliday fought for control of herself, got it. "I pilot my daddy's 'Mech, a _Commando._ I can do my own repairs, too."

Sheila marked that down. Three kills in a light _Commando_ said something for Miss Holliday. "Why do you want to join up?"

"I want to kill Clanners, ma'am."

Senefa had been silent to this point. Now she leaned forward. "I am a 'Clanner,' Miss Holliday. Does that extend to me?"

Holliday faced Senefa without blinking. "Not if you're on our side, ma'am. But if you came against me and mine? I'd kill you, sure."

Marion turned red. "That's enough." She put her hand on Holliday's shoulder. "You're done."

Holliday moved like a striking cobra. She was out of Marion's grip in a half-second, had grabbed the offending hand in another half-second, and forced the surprised Marion into an arm lock before the older woman could react. A knife appeared in one hand—despite the fact that none of the prospects had been allowed to carry weapons in, and that the Sentinels Light Infantry had made sure of that. "Please don't touch me like that, ma'am," Holliday said evenly.

Elfa had shot to her feet, mouth open to call for security, but Senefa reached out and touched her arm. "MechWarrior Holliday," she said calmly. "Where did you learn that?"

"I grew up hard, ma'am. Rasalhagians don't like mercenaries." She let go of Marion and handed her the knife. "Sorry, ma'am. Reflex action." Marion rubbed a sore wrist. She looked for a moment like she was going to cut Holliday's throat, then she grinned and handed the younger woman her dagger back. "I like her," Marion said.

Elfa sat down, and Sheila let out a breath. "If I put you under her command," Sheila asked, pointing to Senefa, "will you obey orders?"

"Absolutely. 'Long as they're not stupid." She gave Senefa a short, quick nod. "I don't think they will be."

From anyone else, Sheila thought, she probably would've had Kassy Holliday arrested. Yet there was something in the young woman's eyes. She had seen much. She would know the difference between a good order and one that was insane. "Were you ever in prison?" Sheila asked on impulse.

Holliday smiled. "Public disturbance and resisting police. 14 arrests, no convictions."

Sheila couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Any objections?" No one said anything. "Very well, MechWarrior Holliday. You're hired. But if you pull any of that, or get into a fight here on Sudeten, and we'll kick your ass out an airlock. Clear?"

Holliday snapped to attention and saluted. "Crystal. I won't let you down, Commander."

* * *

"Nicolas, Peter. Former lance commander. Five years with the 21st Centauri Lancers, eight years 4th Tau Ceti Rangers, and six years with McGee's Cutthroats. 46 years old. Nullator, Free Worlds League." Peter Nicholas was a big man, with blond hair cropped so close he looked bald. Sheila looked at his right arm: like hers, it was artificial. He had a bad scar across his face as well.

"At ease, Mr. Nicholas," she ordered. Nicolas' hands went to the small of his back. Sheila studied the letter of recommendation that he had proferred upon entering the room. Colonel Evelena Haskell was one of the more respected mercenary commanders in the Inner Sphere, and she had written Nicholas the letter, but it was rather succinct and said nothing about the man. "Have you ever commanded anything higher than a lance?" If Nicholas had never progressed beyond the rank of lance commander, that meant something was wrong, or that he simply never aspired to higher command. There were some like that.

"Commanded a company with the 4th Tau Ceti." He hesitated, then added, "Ma'am." A small smile. "Sorry, Commander. I'm not used to taking orders from a 20 year old."

"Is that a problem?" Senefa asked.

"Negative."

"Why did you leave the Centauri Lancers?" the Clanswoman said next.

"Pay dispute. They weren't giving me my fair share. Plus guarding the Marik frontier got kinda boring."

"And you are 46? That seems kind of old for a career change." Marion narrowed her eyes at Senefa's statement, and Sheila shot her friend a warning glance. In the Clans a warrior of 46 had better be commanding a Galaxy or be the Khan of a Clan—and even then. The Inner Sphere was different, which Senefa had trouble remembering.

"We don't pay that well," Sheila put in, to forestall an argument. "Based on your experience, you'd be only given 400 C-Bills a month."

"Would I get more as a lance commander or company commander?"

"Yes," Sheila said guardedly, "but we'd have to see how well you could fight a lance."

"That's good enough for me, Commander. I pilot a _Marauder,_ by the way."

Sheila looked around at the others. There were signs of agreement. "We need all the veterans we can get," she told Nicholas. "You're in."

"Thank you, Commander. You won't regret it." He smiled at Senefa. "I'm every bit as good at 46 as I was at 26, Miss Malthus."

* * *

"Masterson, Cecilia C. Former lance commander with the Black Cat Lancers. 25 years old. New Vallis, Taurian Concordat." Masterson was of average height, her skin the color of coffee, with an easy smile. "Call me CeeCee."

"Long way from home," Max commented.

"I haven't lived there since I was six, sir. My parents were techs. We moved to the FRR back in '47 for a new start. I did a hitch in the Kungsarme after I graduated and I didn't like it, so I joined up with the Lancers. Good times, until Radstadt."

Sheila looked down at her notes again. Masterson was being modest. She had won the Order of the Silver Fox for actions on New Oslo, the Lancers' first fight against the Clans. It was exceedingly rare for a medal of any kind to be awarded to a mercenary in the Free Rasalhague Republic, much less one of their higher orders. She had taken on a _Masakari_ head to head on Radstadt and won, which was no easy feat in even an 80-ton _Zeus._ "Why do you want to join up with us?"

"I like to keep busy, ma'am." Masterson noticed Marion's foul look, and added, "Seriously. I've heard about the Snowbirds and looked over your record. Whatever you're doing, it won't be dull, and it's likely to give me another crack at the fucking Clans. No disrespect, ma'am."

"None taken." Sheila was already liking CeeCee Masterson. "It might be a bloody campaign."

"Aren't they all, Commander?"

Another look, more nods. "Welcome aboard, CeeCee," Sheila said.

"Thank you, Commander." Masterson hesitated. "Do I have time to get a divorce?"

"Plenty," Sheila replied. This was a new twist.

"Capital. I can't wait to see the look on her face." Masterson grinned, saluted, and left a stunned Snowbirds high command in her wake…which had been her intention.

* * *

"Munroe, Ariel. Formerly 3rd Drakons, Rasalhague Kungsarme. 23 years old. Rasalhague." Ariel Munroe's skin was darker than Masterson's, and she was nearly Sheila's height, with straightened hair that fell over her backside. _Another Rasalhagian,_ Max scratched on Sheila's notes. There certainly seemed a great deal of them today.

"What brings you to Sudeten?" Elfa asked. "You're not a mercenary."

"My unit, much like my bank account, has been wiped out, Major. And frankly, I'm tired of being shuttled from repple-depples—" she used the common vernacular for replacement depots "—and being told we've lost the war. Well, maybe Rasalhague has thrown in the towel, but _I_ haven't. I want to fight, Commander Arla-Vlata," Munroe said, looking at Sheila.

"Might be a lost cause," Marion said, mainly to see what Munroe would have to say to that.

"My ancestors were Zulus," Munroe answered. "We know all about fighting lost causes." She turned back to Sheila. "I have my own 'Mech, a _Phoenix Hawk_. I'm willing to fight anywhere, with anyone, except for ComStar, because they freak me out. I'm ready, willing, and able, and hungry."

"Hungry?" Senefa raised an eyebrow, wondering if Munroe was being allegorical or she was serious.

"Yes, ma'am. I spent my last C-bill getting my 'Mech stored for the month. I'm staying down at the shelter and giving plasma to eat."

"You're hired," Sheila told her, liking her enthusiasm. It would've been easy for Munroe to simply stay in the repple-depples and wait for reassignment, but she wanted to fight—enough that she was willing to drive herself into poverty to do it. That was the kind of person Sheila wanted.

"Commander, you've made my day." Munroe grinned. "Would it be possible to advance me about fifty C-Bills?"

It was Max's turn to raise some eyebrows. "You _are_ hungry," he commented.

"It's actually for my hair, sir." Munroe gathered up its long length. "I have a barber who charges by the meter." That brought a few laughs. Max signed a voucher over to Munroe, who saluted and allowed Marion to lead her out the door. There had been a few more prospects between Masterson and Munroe, and none had worked out. That left only two in the room: a young man and a young woman, sitting opposite from each other. They looked enough alike to be siblings. "Okay, you," she said, pointing to the woman. She stood, and so did the man. "Sit down," Marion snarled. "One at a time."

"No, ma'am," he replied. "We're a matched pair—my sister and me. Get one, get the other." The woman nodded vigorously.

Marion took a step forward. "What if I don't _like_ you?"

"Then I'll walk too," the woman said in reply.

Marion looked from one to the other, contemplated tossing them out the door, then rubbed her eyes. "Oh God. All right, both of you…come on." They were eager to follow, and ended up in front of the desk, crashing to attention in the Davion style by stomping their feet. "State your name, former position, age, home planet," Marion intoned.

"Robert Drakon," the male said.

"Betsy Drakon," said the female.

"MechWarriors, formerly with the Twycross TMM," Robert continued. "24 years old, Twycross."

"And how old are you?" Marion barked at Betsy.

"24. We're fraternal twins," Betsy answered. Marion slapped her forehead, both at her own stupidity and the thought of adding these two to the Snowbirds.

Sheila consulted her notes about them. Drakon wasn't a name you picked out of a hat. "You're real last name is Drakon?"

Robert and Betsy looked at each other for a moment. "Well, no," Robert said. "Our parents were with the TMM too, but they disappeared when the unit was overrun last year. We were here on Sudeten at the time, in OCS."

"Both of you were in Officer Candidate School?" Elfa asked incredously.

"Oh yes," Betsy insisted. "We both got chosen. Pure coincidence."

"Go on," Sheila told them.

"Well, since our parents might be in a Jade Falcon POW camp somewhere, we figured we'd better change our names," Robert explained. "Drakon—Dragon—seemed like a good choice at the time."

"Our real last name is Smith," Betsy said. Max covered his eyes, then his mouth, so as not to laugh.

"So, what do you pilot?" Sheila was almost afraid to ask.

"_Blackjacks._" This from Robert.

"Both of you?"

"Yes, ma'am." From Betsy.

"But different kinds," Robert added. "I pilot a standard BJ-2. I got the upgrade last month…we've been assigned to the Sudeten TMM, but we want out of that."

"Right," Betsy agreed. "Militia units don't last long against the Clans. We want to be with someone who knows what they're doing. I pilot a modded BJ-1 with an AC/20."

"An Autocannon/20?" Senefa asked. Like everyone else, she now was looking at Robert Drakon, but it was Betsy who answered, "Sure. With the right counterweights, you can do it pretty easy. It's a Pontiac 100 I salvaged off a _Victor._ I necked it down some so it isn't so obvious. The other arm's just got a small laser, but I welded a length of pipe to the end and beefed it up with styrene so it looks like a large laser. I'm a tech too."

"She does maintenance on my 'Mech," Robert put in. "I managed to scrounge some double heat sinks and she installed them, slick as a whistle."

Sheila put a hand up, as Betsy opened her mouth, and sighed. "Okay. I've got just one question for you two." She pointed to each in turn. "Do you do the switching off thing normally, or is it an act for our benefit?"

"Oh no," Betsy said.

"It's just how we are," Robert said.

Sheila resisted the urge to laugh or strangle them. She glanced over at Matria, who gave her a thumbs-up. Whatever else the Drakons were, they were qualified—and it was obvious they would be solid in a lance. "Any objections?" she asked the others. Marion started to say something, thought better of it, and was silent. "All right, you two—you're in," Sheila told them. "Can you report with your gear at 0700 tomorrow? I imagine the militia might have something to say about you deserting."

"No, ma'am," Robert answered, once more throwing them off balance. "We resigned yesterday."

"We knew you'd hire us, ma'am," Betsy said.

"Don't let it go to your head," Sheila warned them. "See you in the morning." They saluted and left, leaving the door open as they went. Marion watched after them, then back at Sheila. "What's next, circus clowns?"

"No, we've already got Tooriu." Sheila went back to her notes, secretly enjoying Marion roll her eyes at the quip. "Is there any more?"

"That's it," confirmed Matria.

"Thank God." Elfa got up and stretched. "Not too bad, I guess. With the Loose Wiring Twins there, we've now got ten MechWarriors. We still have two slots open, but we can get them from somewhere. Maybe raid a POW camp somewhere and get another Clanner." She grinned at Senefa.

Senefa took it in stride. "You should be so lucky." It had taken a little time, but she was getting used to Elfa's ribbing.

"Actually, we've only got one more slot to fill," Sheila said. "I understand we're getting our own liasion officer. Morgan sent me a message saying that, since we're going to be on extended ops offplanet, the FedCom wants to make sure we're not screwing them out of salvage. They're still miffed that Nicia managed to 'misplace' the four Omnis we have."

"Fuck 'em," Marion proclaimed. "Just hope they don't send us some noob." There was a knocking at the door. "Hm. Speak of the devil and he appears. I'll get it." She walked into the other room and opened the door. Instead of finding an expected AFFC uniform, it instead was a young Asian woman, dressed in an unmistakably-Kuritan style, kimono-like women's suit, with her black hair put into four braids that dangled from her ears. She was soaked to the bone with the sleet from outside. "Who the hell are you?"

The other woman bowed deeply and held it. "_Sumimasen._ My name is Kahvi Falx. Am I too late for the hiring hall?"

Marion still held the clipboard. There was no Kahvi Falx on it. "You're not on the list."

She straightened up. "I am sorry; I am not. I just made planetfall an hour ago. I was checking in at the front desk downstairs and heard someone speaking about it in the lounge. I hurried up here." She looked beyond Marion and saw the other officers now gathered in the outer room, and bowed again. "My name is Kahvi Falx," she repeated. "I wish to join the Snowbirds."

"You're a MechWarrior?" Max asked.

"_Hai._"

"Speak English," Marion snapped. "We're not in the Combine."

"No, of course not…forgive me. My English is only fair. I did not get much chance to use it."

"Kahvi Falx." Marion shook her head. "Bullshit. What's your _real _name?"

Falx hesitated, then looked at her shoes. "Kimiko Matsushima," she said quietly.

"I knew it." Marion thumbed towards the door. "Get lost."

"Hold on a second." Sheila stepped forward, intrigued. "What's with the assumed name, Miss Matsushima?" she asked.

"My father is Hiro Matsushima."

"Wait," Max said. "The CEO of Tanadi Electronics?" Falx nodded. "What are you doing here?"

Falx's head came up, and fury smoldered in her eyes. "I graduated from Sun Zhang Academy in 3050, with honors," she said angrily. "I had a scholarship." That took them aback. While Draconis Combine society was slowly liberalizing in the 31st Century, as a byproduct of losing the Fourth Succession War, women were still something of second-class citizens. While females could become MechWarriors, they were almost never promoted past the rank of captain, and never commanded a regiment. The postwar reforms sponsored by Theodore Kurita, the Combine ruler Takashi's son, was changing that, and women now held higher command—at the cost of being ostracized from a still very male-centered society and military. For a woman to go to the elite Sun Zhang Academy was achievement enough, but to do it on a scholarship was exceptional. She reached into her suit and profferred a diploma. They all looked at it. It was verigraphed and unforgeable. Kahvi Falx—Kimiko Matsushima—was telling the truth. "I was silenced when I was at Sun Zhang. I was not allowed to speak for four years—but I persisted. I graduated. And my father still refused to let me serve in a line unit."

There were tears in her eyes now. "I changed my name, drained my account, and came here. The Clans have invaded my home. If I stayed in the Combine, my father would never let me do what I have suffered much to do. So I must come here."

Marion looked skeptical. Sob stories were common, even from someone who might be an ISF spy. MechWarriors might feign to be down on their luck so they could get a quick ride and just as quickly leave. "Can you prove it?"

"My diploma—"

"_—says_ that you're Kimiko Matsushima. But we don't know that you are. Do you have a 'Mech?"

"No," Falx said sadly.

"So how did you figure on getting hired?" Elfa asked.

"I was a test pilot at Tanadi. Though my father forbid it, I know my way around electronics. I can start out as a tech and work my way up."

"The last person we hired on as a tech turned out to be a Liao assassin," Marion growled. "How do we know that you're not more of the same?"

Falx hesitated, then held up her hands. They were smooth, not at all calloused. "A spy would not as so foolish to appear as a pampered rich girl—nor would she give an easily verified cover story." She looked to Sheila. "_Please,_ Commander Arla-Vlata." She stumbled over the name, which could give Kuritans unused to English fits. "Forgive my poor English. Give me a chance."

Sheila began to say something, but Senefa, with a glance, kept her silent. She suddenly barked, "Kahvi!" Falx instantly turned to look at the Clanswoman. "There is a 'Mech at your three o'clock, range 420 meters. Engage him with your primary weapon system."

"H-how—"

Marion grasped what Senefa was trying to do. "Air guitar it!"

Falx complied quickly. Her hands grasped imagined control sticks, even looked to her right, and shifted as if trying to move a heavy 'Mech around. Her fingers jerked as she cycled through her weapons and engaged. It took a space of less than three seconds. "Very good," Senefa said.

"Yeah, except that the primary weapon trigger's on the right stick," Matria said.

"Not on the _Dragon,_" Marion corrected him. "It's on the left stick. Drives MechWarriors crazy."

"_Gomen na—_ah, I mean, I am sorry," Falx said, "but in the _Grand Dragon_, it was moved to the right. I was engaging with LRMs. It would be a better choice at 420 meters, which is medium range for missiles but long for an ER-PPC."

"I've heard enough." Sheila reached out and put a hand on Falx's shoulder. "You're staying here at the hotel? Okay. You're not hired yet—I want to do a background check—but if that clears, you're good to go. We'll contact you. Fair enough?"

"Yes!" Falx bowed deeply once more. Sheila, awkwardly, returned it, but as a commander would. "Thank you, Commander, thank you. " She bowed to each of them in turn, hesitated a moment, then seeing she was dismissed, turned to leave. "One more thing," Sheila said, halting her. "You're a Sun Zhang alumni. Where's your swords?" All Sun Zhang graduates were awarded swords on graduation—a paired katana and wakizashi. The latter was to commit ritual suicide if they failed the Kurita Dragon.

"In my luggage."

"Didn't want to be known as a Kurita," Matria commented. "Makes sense."

"_Iye._ I am not a MechWarrior yet." Falx bowed once more and was gone.


	4. On a Steel Horse I Ride

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: It's been a little while, huh? I was on vacation, and just came off of a great time at Anime Central and Miscon. Now well fortified with ideas, having watched way too much anime and played a great deal of Battletech, I'm ready to go again, though this chapter is much shorter than the last._

_ A little bit of techie porn in this one as well, this time for tanks. Tanks have always been kind of neglected in the Battletech universe (especially in the novels), so I wanted to give the treadheads a bit of recognition. BTW, the song _Der Panzerlied_, which most war movie enthusiasts will recognize from the otherwise lamentable _Battle of the Bulge,_ does have its basis in the Nazi era, but is not a Nazi song; the present Panzer units of the German Bundeswehr still use it. There is a faint whiff of _We Were Soldiers _in this, but that's probably because the actual book of _We Were Soldiers Once…And Young_ was my recreational reading during my vacation (along with the superlative _House to House_ by David Bellavia, which I can't recommend enough for anyone interested in Iraq)._

_ A final note: Garryowen is a bit of a hard-luck song. It was popular among the British Light Brigade at Balaclava in 1854 (they were nearly wiped out) and among the 7th Cavalry in 1876 (which, of course, _were_ wiped out at Little Bighorn). It remains popular with the 7th Cavalry today, despite taking horrendous casualties at Ia Drang Valley in 1965 and getting raked by friendly fire in the First Gulf War. I'd switch to another song._

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_SulliMike: Well, having all the misfits form an elite unit is a staple of military fiction (maybe even a cliché). But if there's one thing I've noticed from growing up in the military, it really is a cross-section of society._

_FraserMage: Thank you. With the explosion of new 'Mech types in the FedCom Civil War and the Jihad, it's nice to kick it old skool._

_4477: They're not problem children! Really, they're not!_

_RougeBaron: I hadn't thought of it that way, but yeah, maybe a little. Except Sheila's a lot better looking and much more sober than Pappy was. (I briefly met Boyington just before he died. Pretty kewl guy, but definitely not a man I would've wanted mad at me.)_

_GreenKnight: I am somewhat familiar with the partisans in the Philippines (my dad is a PT boat fanatic, and the men of Squadron Three that had to stay behind hold a particular fascination for him), so once I clear my backlog of reading, I'll have to look into that. As far as Blair Atholl and Butte Hold, well, we'll see…_

_TxAGunfighter: Gunny, thanks for your reviews, but please, just one story arc at a time. Right now my inbox thinks you're spamming it._

_Wolfman: I hope so…_

_Panzerfaust: Kahvi and Senefa are both strangers in a strange land, so yes, they will probably have some interaction along the way. And I really like being compared to _Hammer's Slammers,_ which has a very good reputation among my gamer buddies. As far as traditions, yeah, they need some. A "spur ride"? I'm afraid to ask._

_MUSIC CORNER: "Der Panzerlied" and "Garryowen" of course, and for some reason, "Yurika's Theme" from _Martian Successor Nadesico _comes to mind._

_Sentinel Base Sudeten_

_Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_5 October 3051_

Sheila headed towards the vehicle bay with some trepidation. She was by herself. Both Max and Tooriu had volunteered to go with her, but she had refused. No, this was one lion's den she would have to enter alone.

Until the advent of the BattleMech, the tank ruled supreme on the battlefield. Despite the best and occasionally successful attempts of infantry to supplant it, the tank had been in continual use for 1100 years, since 1917 and the Battle of Cambrai, which was still studied in military academies even in Sheila's time. Since the first _Mackie_ had marched off the production line in 2439, however, the tank was displaced permanently. Though many thousands, perhaps millions, of tanks were in service on virtually every planet in the Inner Sphere—and, from what Senefa had reported, among the Clans as well—they were considered far inferior to 'Mechs, relegated to supporting roles, in militia units, or in areas where 'Mechs were simply too precious to squander. Tankers were replaced by MechWarriors as the elite of the military branches, at least in the public's eye. At the Nagelring, the grizzled old instructors had warned Sheila and other MechWarriors never to underestimate tanks, some of which outweighed their 'Mechs and could kill a 'Mech and its pilot as swiftly as any other 'Mech. Tanks also came in a huge variety, far more than even 'Mechs, from the tiny five-ton Savannah Master, which Sheila had heard described as little more than "an engine, a fan, a cockpit, a laser, and a death wish," to the mighty 80-ton Demolisher, which mounted two giant Autocannon/20s and could blow a 'Mech in half with a single salvo. Even with that knowledge, most MechWarriors retained a feeling of superiority to their "treadhead" brethren throughout their career.

Sheila had privately dreaded the idea of attaching a company of tanks to her 'Mech units. She knew nothing about them. Even though Calla Bighorn-Vlata and the Sentinel Tank Battalion's commander, Richard Cannon, strove mightily to integrate the MechWarriors and tankers together, something that had mostly succeeded with the elite Sentinels Light Infantry, it just never seemed to take with either party. MechWarriors and tankers almost never messed together, they rarely drank together (though they more than occasionally fought each other), and both had a generally low opinion of the other: to MechWarriors, tankers were has-beens fit only for rear-area guarding, while tankers thought of MechWarriors as elitist prima-donnas. Now she was expected not only to cart these people into battle with her, but use them as well as she used her 'Mechs.

_Well,_ Sheila thought, echoing an earlier conversation with Max, _if these people are going to be expected to die with us, I'd better meet them._ Apparently she was getting what her father called a well-rounded mix of vehicles, which did not make her feel better and made her wonder if Cannon was simply unloading his problem children on her.

She resisted the urge to sneak up to the vehicle bay, which was contained in a hangarlike structure not unlike the vaster 'Mech bays scattered around the base. Like all the buildings at Sentinel Base Sudeten, it had hand-lettered signs hastily covered with Sentinels emblems placed over the previous inhabitants of the base, the 39th Avalon Hussars. The Snowbirds' tank company—designated Delta Company—were supposed to be on this side of the bulding, the south side, but Sheila thought she heard singing and music from inside. She crept up to the door and put her ear to it, instantly recognizing the tune. It was _der Panzerlied,_ an ancient song with its roots in the Panzerkorps of the Third Reich's Wehrmacht. Since the song itself had no Nazi connotations, it had remained in the lexicon of German marches to the time of the Exodus from Terra, and from there swiftly adopted by House Steiner's military. It had been adopted as well—though tankers claimed it was "stolen"—by MechWarriors after the BattleMech had gained prominence. It was one of the Nagelring's favorite marching songs and was always sung in German. A cacophony of voices was singing the fourth stanza of the song, which referred to bypassing enemy strongpoints, laughing at them, and finding paths that no one else found—the essence of _blitzkrieg,_ lightning war. Sheila had to wonder at once more running into a reference to a thousand-year old war for at least the third time in a week. Behind the voices was a fiddle keeping time.

Sheila opened the door silently and walked in. She leaned on the side of a Pegasus hovertank, the first in line of over a dozen vehicles that wore the Snowbirds owl. She abruptly realized that she had no idea what exactly had been assigned to her. _Bad move, Arla-Vlata,_ she lectured herself. _You're supposed to be these people's commander, and you don't even know what they drive. Get with it, dumbass._

The song died away on a grim note, saying that if the tankers' luck ran out, their tank would be their grave. The Snowbird tankers took it as gallows humor evidently, for they laughed. A female voice yelled out, "What's next, guys?"

"How about 'Garryowen'?" someone else said.

_God, no,_ Sheila groaned to herself. "How about not?" she said, stepping out from behind the tank. "It's a great song, but every unit that sang it got wiped out."

Sheila instantly regretted her grand entrance. The tank crewpeople—nearly eighty of them—gaped at her, then dropped what they were doing, which appeared to be a party, and came to attention as a young man lounging on the Pegasus' deflated hoverskirt yelled "Commander present! Atten-_shoon!"_ Now she really felt like an intruder. Deciding to salvage the situation, she stepped forward, hands up. "No, no," she told them, "don't let me interrupt the revival."

The young man gave her a dazzling salute. "My apologies, Commander. I didn't know you were coming by—that is, _we_ didn't know you were coming by."

"I gathered that…according to the schedule, you're supposed to be on normal working routine." She nodded towards the bottles of beer in a ice-filled tub. "It is lunchtime, yes, but you're not supposed to be drinking your lunch."

He hesitated, then sighed and looked at his boots. "It's my fault, Commander. It's just one beer per person. I thought we should just celebrate, that's all. We were all picked by Commander Cannon before Vantaa, and we finally got the word today that we were joining your unit. I just wanted to hold an impromptu party." He drew himself up to his full height, which was not considerable. "It's my fault. I take full responsibility, ma'am."

Sheila found herself liking him, a Major by his rank tabs. _This is David Moore, then,_ she told herself, remembering the name. Moore looked as young as she was, but he had a good reputation: Moore had been the scion of a Lyran noble family who had walked away from a fortune to fight the Clans. Unlike Chuck Badaxe, he had not done it to impress a girl, but out of a genuine love of country. He had decided to start out at the bottom, in hovertanks, though a man of his intellect had to know that hovertanks were notoriously fragile in combat and their life expectancy in a pitched battle was measured in seconds. Yet he had excelled with the Sentinels, enough that Cannon had brevetted him to major and put him in charge of the Snowbirds' Delta Company tanks. That boded well. Obviously the company liked him too.

Still, Sheila couldn't be too easy on Moore. The last thing she needed was a company of closet drunks. "That's fine, Major. No blood, no report—but don't let it happen again. Not during working hours. Clear?"

"Crystal, Commander. If you'll give us a little time, we can clean up…"

"That's fine," she repeated. "I'd like to meet everyone now. I don't stand on ceremony. The Snowbirds are a fighting unit, not showpieces." She looked around at the gathered crews. "Major, your people may look like crap—but the equipment is in pristine shape. That's what I care about. That, and the fact that I don't expect strangers to go into combat with me…so…" Sheila put out her hand. "I'm Sheila Arla-Vlata."

"David Moore." The handshake was firm—not enough to crush her hand, but far from limp, either. "Let me show you around."

Moore introduced Sheila to the other tankers. There were 56 of them, total, and Sheila's hand ached at the end. She made sure she had something to say to each of them, remembering the old adage that truly good commanders made each person feel like they had been spoken to personally, picked out among their brethren alone as a close friend. She envied the great captains of military history who could pick a name from memory from among the ranks, because to Sheila, the 56 faces passed like a blur. She was ashamed to admit to herself that in an hour, she doubted she'd remember who half of these men and women were.

Still, some faces stood out. She had heard of Jacqueline Shaw, for instance, who had been with the Sentinels since the Fourth Succession War and probably should be at home playing with her grandchildren rather than still fighting in tanks. Moreover, she had picked for herself the least envied assignment in the Sentinels: antiaircraft duty. Flak tanks were prime targets for everyone, because they were the main obstacle to air support that could turn the tide of battle. At least Shaw would have a better chance of survival: she had one of the new Hawkslayer tanks, an uparmored version of the venerable Partisan AAA tank that replaced the quad autocannons with two LB-10X types. The LB autocannons were lighter and, best of all, could fire lethal flechette rounds that would be devastating to aircraft.

Shasti Buena she knew of as well, though Sheila wasn't sure if she was supposed to talk to her or read her: Buena's arms were covered in tattoos, and she had more elsewhere, if the intricate pattern around her navel was any indication; she had tied off her shirt and rolled up her sleeves to work on her machine, a Chuikov SRM Carrier. The Sentinels had added armor to their missile tanks, but though they were capable of unleashing a devastating cloud of missiles, they usually didn't survive more than the first salvo. Buena did look capable, at least, and her smile was infectious. She had been the one with the fiddle.

Jackson Dinson looked like he was about twelve, a little boy playing soldier. His blond hair was tied back in a queue, and he shook Sheila's right hand awkwardly with his left: his right arm was artificial, like Sheila's, but not quite as advanced. Dinson, Sheila remembered from his file, had been a MechWarrior until he and his _Stinger_ had lost an argument with a Kurita _Marauder_ in 3048. Having lost a leg as well, he had been deemed unfit for further duty and medically retired from the AFFC, but Dinson missed the military life, retrained in the only branch that would take him—artillery—and joined the Sentinels. Sheila wasn't sure what she was going to do with two Sniper self-propelled artillery pieces, but certainly they would be useful.

Fianna Cassidy and her platoon executive officer, Dennis Dorinson, were a matched pair formerly from the Northwind Highlanders, and both spoke with the thick brogue of Northwind natives. Sheila noticed that both proudly wore clan badges on their uniforms, and that they thoroughly enjoyed sniping at each other. She wasn't sure if the sniping was good-natured or not. Cassidy was a tall redhead with a temper to match, while Dorinson was built like a fire hydrant. Both commanded Ontos tanks, 85-ton monsters that mounted LRM missiles and a murderous broadside of eight medium lasers.

Archibald Backs commanded the demi-platoon of two Lynx hover armored personnel carriers that would carry the attached SLI infantry into combat. At six foot six and with a beard that dropped to his barrel chest, he looked like a god of war; his handshake engulfed Sheila's hands and probably were responsible for the ache. He was in direct contrast to the SLI platoon leader, a young woman no older than Sheila, Nisa Kinosh. The latter gave Sheila a worshipful look and did everything but pledge her eternal fealty to her new commander. That made Sheila more than a little uncomfortable, but since Sheila's own mother had handpicked Kinosh for command—which was incredible considering her youth—she hoped it would be all right.

The others were a cross-section of the Inner Sphere: John Williams, a rough-looking, scarred Welshman from the Isle of Skye; Vincent Lian, a native of Liao space who talked so fast his words ran into each other and piled up into an unintelligible mess; Natasha Tal, an olive skinned beauty who had tied the ancient flag of Israel to her Sturmfeur missile carrier; Susan Johnston, known as General Quarters because of her reputation as a martinet; Henri Fromage, who was so obnoxiously French that it had to be an act; William Griffon, who looked like he would be far more comfortable teaching at a small community college than humping artillery rounds; Eric Sykes, an unsmiling, bitter young man who had already gunned down three men of different units in duels. And that was just the tank commanders: the individual crewmen were even more of a melting pot. For all that, however, Sheila was glad to meet and know them.

She just hoped she could keep them alive.

* * *

Sheila returned to her tiny command post to find she had two visitors: Max, and a swarthy, bearded man who wore the khaki duty uniform of the AFFC. He came to attention with an unlit cigar in his saluting hand and grinned at her. "Commander Arla-Vlata?"

"That's me," Sheila replied. "And you are?"

"Copeland, Commander. Hauptmann Robert Copeland. Call me Rob." To Sheila's dismay, he offered his hand, and she took it despite the fact that her fingers still hurt. "I'm your liasion officer." Next he proferred his orders. Sheila glanced at them and set them down on her desk. She exchanged a glance with Max, who rolled his eyes. She knew that look: Copeland was annoying him.

"Well, Hauptmann, it's good to finally have you here," Sheila said, trying not to sound irritated. It was part of the AFFC's new policy with mercenaries to assign liasion officers at the battalion level rather than merely regimental. Supposedly it was to promote better understanding and coordination between regular House units and mercenaries, but many mercs, Sheila included, wondered if it was an attempt by the AFFC to keep closer tabs on units and keep them from breaking contract and fleeing the Clans—or worse, make sure that mercenaries didn't sneak Clantech salvage, which was literally worth its weight in gold to units or to the very lucrative black market. Sheila supposed it made sense from Hanse Davion's point of view, but to her it was just another headache. Some liasion officers were solid—the Sentinels' regimental liasion, Allegra Grant, was widely respected—but too many thought of themselves as something akin to political officers, who were more concerned with House loyalty and second-guessing their assigned commanders than actually doing their jobs of making sure the contracts were being upheld and everyone was happy. Moreover, Copeland was a month late. "What kept you?"

"Oh. I had trouble wangling priority clearance to Sudeten. Just about everything's booked up with cargo. I was stuck on Skye, so I figured I might as well visit some family while I was cooling my heels."

"I see," Sheila said, though she really didn't: there were ways to get clearance, and liasion officers could easily claim priority. She leafed through his file, paying special attention to security checks. He had been vetted clean. "Says here you served with the 12th Star Guards and Lindon's Regiment."

"Yes, Commander. I was with the Star Guards right out of Sanglamore Academy and just finished up my hitch with Lindon." He paused. "I volunteered for the Snowbirds. You guys seem to be where the action is."

"You could say that," Max spoke up. "Have you seen any action?"

"Not against the Clans, but I've seen some fighting on the Marik and Kurita frontiers." He fingered a small, twisted piece of metal on a chain around his neck, which Sheila and Max quickly recognized: a 'Mech charm. Some MechWarriors kept a piece of their first machine if they had it shot out from under them. "I had a _Warhammer_ until some Kurita SOB blew me away on Galtor III."

"Bad luck," Sheila said.

"Maybe. I managed to get off a shot before I went down. Potted him in the head. They fixed it up and gave me the 'Mech. Still pilot it, too—a _Crusader-K._"

_Well, that's something,_ Sheila thought. Copeland had done his time. "You had a lance with Lindon. It's a bit beneath you, but I'll give you one of my lances. That okay?"

"Sure," Copeland answered, "I didn't think I'd be getting a company anyway."

"There's three solid guys in there, but they've never worked together. That'll be your job, Hauptmann. We're going to be putting everyone through some refresher training over the next month before we're expected to be assigned to operations, so you'll have time. They're over at 'Mech Bay Nine right now, if you want to meet them."

Copeland smiled, his teeth stark against his beard. "Okay. Anything else, Commander?"

"No, I think that's it for now. Have you reported in to Major Grant?" He nodded. "Good. Carry on then." Sheila again felt awkward. She honestly didn't know what to do with a liasion officer.

Copeland seemed to sense it. "Don't worry, Commander. I've been doing this for about six years now. I'll help you through the rough spots of having a liasion. Just treat me like one of the guys." His grin grew wider as he saluted. "I'll be off then…see if I can whip these guys into shape for fighting Hanse Davion's war."

Something in Copeland's tone of voice brought Sheila up short. "What was that you said?" Sheila asked, quietly.

Copeland's grin remained. "Hanse Davion's war. You know how it is."

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

Max shot Copeland a warning glance, willing the other man to simply apologize, salute, and leave: Sheila had suddenly become dangerously quiet. But Copeland was oblivious. "Ahh…" He waved it off. "It's just like it was in '39, when my daddy was with Nondi Steiner around Lyons. Hanse Davion, ol' Blood and Guts—our blood, his guts." He shrugged. "Don't mean nothing, Commander, I'll fight all the same—"

"It's not Hanse Davion's war," Sheila said coldly. "It's _our_ war, Copeland. Every one of us. Everyone. And if you go into battle with that kind of flippant attitude, some young and enterprising Clan warrior is going to make you very dead."

Copeland suddenly realized what he had done. "I…I'm sorry, Commander, I didn't mean it like that. Just a joke, huh? We tell jokes like that all the time on Skye—it don't mean nothing—"

"It does mean something!" Sheila shouted. "I've seen too many of my friends killed, Hauptmann! Don't you _ever_ say it doesn't mean anything!"

"That's not how I meant it, ma'am—"

"Are you a Skye separatist?" Sheila snarled. "Are you fucking Free Skye?"

"God, no!" Copeland was now almost pleading. "I'm loyal, Commander; I wouldn't be in the AFFC if I wasn't—"

Max put a hand gently on Sheila's. "Hauptmann…please understand. Free Skye isn't very popular with the Sentinels, much less with the Snowbirds. If you can't accept that, maybe you'd better find another assignment."

Copeland's face became set. "No, Major. I got it. I wanted this assignment."

"Then you keep your damn jokes to yourself."

"Right, right—"

"See to your lance," Sheila snapped. Copeland gave her a quick salute and fled. It was a full three minutes after he had left that Sheila sank back into her chair. Max perched himself on the side of her desk. "You want to get rid of him?" he said into the silence, which had been ominously broken only by the whine of the servomotors in Sheila's left arm.

"No," she sighed. "It would take too long, and we can't do anything until we have a liasion officer. We'll just have to keep an eye on him, that's all."

"So what happens if he steps out of line?"

"Then he's dead," Sheila said simply.


	5. The Die is Cast

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm having a lot of fun with this story, and since I've recently learned that my summer's going to be a lot busier than I thought, I figured I'd better be hitting the keyboard before things get so busy I can't update. In any case, a pretty talky chapter, but one that's very necessary: Sheila's briefing on the Snowbirds' raid. _

_ I had to make some educated guesses as to where the Clans' front lines were in October 3051. Both the _Wolf Clan Sourcebook _and the _Invading Clans Sourcebook _are pretty reliable, but the _Jade Falcon Clan Sourcebook _is basically worthless in this regard: it lists Alyina has having fallen in August 3050, whereas _Blood Legacy_ very clearly states that it doesn't get attacked until January 3052. Since Kai Allard-Liao couldn't have disappeared on Alyina in August 3050 and be on Outreach in January 3051, I can only surmise that somebody was asleep at the wheel at FASA when the _Jade Falcon Sourcebook_ came out. Whatever. Anyway, the listing was as accurate as I could make it. I also mention that the Clans have resumed their offensive, which may not be accurate. However, in Chapter 26 of _Blood Legacy, _both Ulric and Natasha Kerensky imply heavily that attacks have begun, and in Chapter 28, Shin Yodama tells Omi Kurita that Marshdale has already been hit. Mainly I did this so the Snowbirds can get off their butt and I can write some 'Mech battle stuff. _

_ I've also added some asides to the 1st Somerset Strikers (the unit in the infamous Battletech cartoon series) and Rhonda Snord's attack on Camelot Command in the Dark Nebula. There's also a certain familiar MIIO agent here too…_

_ Finally—FINALLY!—I have added an updated TO&E for the Snowbirds. Now you'll know where everyone is! That's why the chapter is kind of long too._

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_SulliMike: Yeah, I've lost my share to tanks too. Friggin' SRM carriers._

_FraserMage: I talked a little about that in this chapter, feeding tank crews along with MechWarriors. It's simple: rob the nearest WalMart. (I figure they will still have WalMart in 3051. Hell, WalMart will probably be its own _House_ by 3051…)_

_Flashpoint: Thanks. Nobody cares about generic characters. And thanks for the correction on "das Panzerlied," though I've always heard it referred to as "der Panzerlied." From what I remember from high school German (which isn't much), I'm pretty sure "das" is the correct form. (Just wait until Sheila starts butchering the Japanese language.)_

_Rouge: Well, all I did was say "hi" to Pappy Boyington; I was ten at the time and scared out of my mind. My dad spoke with him extensively, though. I just sat there and listened and hoped Pappy wouldn't eat me. (Hey, he was intimidating as hell.)_

_MUSIC CORNER: "The King of the Golden Hall" from _The Two Towers_ is good, as is the "Top Gun Anthem." And for some reason I've been listening a lot to the "Robotech March" lately too. _

* * *

_AFFC General Headquarters Clan Front_

_Reichenberg, Sudeten, Federated Commonwealth_

_10 October 3051_

Sheila Arla-Vlata smoothed her uniform for about the fourteenth time since they had left the hotel, Max saw. She had picked up a nervous tic in that the fingers on her artificial hand would twitch—the result of involuntary nerve impulses being sent to the myomers in the arm. "Sheila, relax," he whispered to her. "It's a good plan. We went over this with a finetooth comb last night. Everyone said it was a good plan. It'll be okay."

Sheila looked at her hands. Both were trembling. "Look at me. I told off Sun-Tzu Liao to his face on Outreach, and here I'm about ready to wet my pants." She gave him a brittle smile. "It's a good plan…but it has to work." Max took her hands in his and held them reassuringly. They were alone in the dimly lit briefing room. Everything in it screamed House Steiner-Davion bureaucracy and might. The briefing table was polished black marble with the Federated Commonwealth's sword-and-sunburst worked into it. The carpet was deep and gray, the same color as the chairs, which were pressure sensitive and adjusted automatically to the persons seated in them. The flags of the FedCom, both Houses Steiner and Davion, the AFFC, the Tamar March, and Morgan Hasek-Davion's personal emblem surrounded the podium where Sheila would have to deliver her plan. The walls were dotted with the obligatory portraits of Hanse Davion and Melissa Steiner-Davion, along with Duke Selvin Kelswa, the ill-tempered leader of the Tamar March, and other AFFC luminaries. They were also dotted with a checkerboard of inset squares, which were not there for decoration, but to absorb sound. A holoprojector squatted in the middle of the table like some spider's lair.

The door hissed open, and both Sheila and Max shot to their feet as a number of people entered, all of them with stars on their shoulderboards. Morgan Hasek-Davion, Marshal of the AFFC, was first. He was followed by Calla Bighorn-Vlata, commander of the Sentinels RCAT and Field Marshal Rainer Poulin, who commanded the Tamar March's forces. There were two other men who Sheila did not recognize, neither of which wore rank insignia on their uniforms, and then an older woman whom Sheila did recognize: the legendary Ariana Winston, who commanded the celebrated Eridani Light Horse.

There was no round of handshakes or niceties other than muttered greetings. Calla sat opposite of Max and gave her a quick wink and a smile. The door slid shut and there was an audible click as it locked. Morgan took his seat at the head of the table, folded his hands in front of him, and nodded to Sheila. It was time to begin. Max gave his wife a surreptitious squeeze of her hands, and Sheila stood and went to the podium, willing her legs not to be wobbly.

She resisted the urge to clear her throat, but did take a deep breath. She let it out. "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Sheila Arla-Vlata. I have the honor of being the commanding officer, Snowbirds Special Missions Combined Arms Team, Sentinels RCAT. I thank you for taking the time to come here today to listen to my proposal for an offensive raid on Clan occupied territory. However, before I go into the details of this operation, I hope you will indulge me and hear me out on _why_ I believe this operation is important." She noticed her father incline his head slightly: this was a deviation from the script they had practiced the night before.

"I have heard some say that the idea of a raid is a stunt." Sheila barely fought down the impulse to glance at Morgan Hasek-Davion. "I can well understand why that is so. The objectives of this operation are limited. I will not propose to you, sirs and ma'am, that my operation will win the war all by itself. It will not. However, its objectives are threefold, only one of which is directly military in origin: the destruction of enemy supplies. The others are based in morale: ours and theirs. It will boost the morale of our citizens, by proving that we can still strike at the Clans without simply waiting for them to strike at us. It will lower the morale of our foes, by proving that they can still be hurt, that they can be struck in a spot of _our_ choosing, not theirs, in a place where they believed they would be safe." Sheila paused. "I think I can speak on behalf of my men and women in the Snowbirds in that there is no other cause so important as to bring us so far away from our homes and from our comrades. This is our purpose. This…is Operation Rubicon."

Sheila motioned to Max, who switched on the holotank. A two-dimensional map of the Inner Sphere's coreward sector swam into resolution behind Sheila, who stepped out of the way. She extended a light pointer, which glowed where it touched the hologram. "We had originally planned to forward base at Planting, but the recent evacuation of that world has resulted in our decision to launch from Sudeten itself." Sheila tried not to let the bitterness in her voice show. After the loss of Vantaa, it had left Planting isolated. Hanse Davion, in August, had decided to abandon the planet to free up reserves for holding the main line of resistance, or MLR. While it made sense strategically, it did not sit well with the Sentinels or the Eridani Light Horse, which had spilled so much blood to retake Planting.

"The current line, as you may be aware, runs from Roadside to Evciler on the Jade Falcon front." Twycross stuck into the Jade Falcon holdings like a thumb; there was no question that Twycross would be held, as it had more strategic significance than Planting.

"Against the Wolves, the occupied zone is much deeper, running from Vulcan to Radstadt." Sheila noticed Poulin lean forward at that: it was obvious that the Wolves' next target would be Tamar, the district march capital. Selvin Kelswa had demanded that the AFFC strip the front of as many as five RCTs to defend his homeworld, a request that Hanse and Melissa had refused, because it would mean leaving huge gaps in the line. Sheila knew that an infuriated Kelswa had begun building a Maginot Line-like fortification around the planetary capital, ignoring the AFFC's pleas to fight a mobile campaign.

"The Ghost Bears hold the narrowest front, only two planets wide: Goito and Soverzene." This had surprised Sheila, because the Bears were facing a divided opponent: the Rasalhagians held one half of the line, Kurita the other, a situation that had existed since the Clans first invaded. Yet the Ghost Bears had been rather limited in their attacks. Either the Bears were more cautious than any other Clan, or the Wolves were that much better.

"Finally, the Smoke Jaguars hold the line Byesville-Jeronimo. Wolcott is in the center, but according to information we received on Outreach, the Clans have pledged never to assault that world after their defeat there last year." That had been incredible news, something Senefa had confirmed. The arrogant Smoke Jaguars had agreed to a Kurita proposal not only to leave Wolcott alone if they lost, but also to give up several Clan OmniMechs and Elemental armor suits. When Kurita had beaten them in a ridiculously easy ambush, the Jaguars had kept their word, although the Jaguars' commander paid with his loss with his life.

"When planning for this operation began, we initially had intended for our strikes to be limited to the Jade Falcon Occupied Zone. However, at the request of Marshal Hasek-Davion, we have switched our emphasis from the Jade Falcons to the Wolves. This is due to the wider dispersal of the Wolves, the comparatively greater threat they pose, and to support our allies in the Free Rasalhague Republic, which have suffered the greatest loss of territory." Sheila didn't mention the other reason Morgan had mentioned: the very real threat that the overextended and badly hit Royal Kungsarme of the FRR was in danger of collapsing against the Wolf onslaught.

She touched the first world. "Our initial objective will be Mozirje. We believe that the Wolves built up an extensive supply point of arms here in preparation for an assault on Planting. Though they have since moved their forces further forward to the MLR, the people of Mozirje have been cowed enough that the Wolves believe this is a secure area and have little defenses there."

Sheila then moved upwards—corewards—slightly. "Our next target will be Kirchbach, the location of Swedenborg Heavy Industries, a producer of ammunition and autocannon and missile parts. Our objective here is also to make the Wolves believe we are raiding coreward back along the way they came in, perhaps make them even think that the Clan homeworlds are our target. Sadly, that's not the case." Sheila added that line mainly for dramatic purposes; a tiny battalion in the middle of as many as sixteen other uncommitted Clans would merely be the 31st Century version of Little Bighorn.

"Instead, we'll swing this way—Maxie's Planet, inside the Clan Jade Falcon OZ. Again, this is a known supply point, and we also have reason to believe that there is an active resistance still onplanet, possibly led by a Major Remke, who we do know ran a brief but effective raiding campaign against a Jade Falcon cluster there when the world fell. We'd like to get him and his men out if possible, even add them to my own force.

"After we hit Maxie's Planet, we will return to Wolf space by hitting New Caledonia. Once more, we have reason to believe that there may be active resistance on the world from the remnants of the planetary militia." That information had come not from the AFFC, but from the Drakon twins, who had contacts in the Tyr political party of Rasalhague. Tyr had its origins in the anti-Kurita resistance, and with the loss of so much territory to the Clans, had reverted back to its partisan ways. "There is also active mining for steel and diamonds onplanet, which is used in the production of 'Mech armor. The Wolves have stepped up production here, and we'd like to shut it down.

"Finally, we will strike New Bergen, which will be our most ambitious strike yet, due to its relative closeness to Rasalhague itself. Following the destruction of supply caches there, we will not return to the Federated Commonwealth, but to the Draconis Combine at Wolcott. There, we will report to the DCMS, rearm if possible, and make a decision as to whether or not to raid our way back across the Clan areas or return via Fort Loudon to Sudeten."

Sheila switched off the light pointer. The five planets glowed gold in her wake. "Ladies and gentlemen, that's Rubicon in a nutshell. We intend to strike at the Clans' supplies, rescue or supply the efforts of resistance efforts behind the lines, gather information on conditions in the Clan zones, force the Clans to redeploy forces to chase us rather than assault planets, and bolster cooperative efforts between the Federated Commonwealth, Free Rasalhague Republic, and the Draconis Combine. It is ambitious, but I believe it will achieve those efforts. If I didn't, I wouldn't be leading it. I open the floor to questions and comments."

There was silence for a few moments. Ariana Winston, to Sheila's surprise, spoke first. "Quite impressive, Commander. What is the makeup of your force?"

_Oops,_ Sheila winced. She had meant to do that first. "My apologies, General—I should've provided that right off." She reached down and touched a button on the podium. Holograms shimmered into life in front of all the assembled staff. Sheila reviewed the Snowbirds' table of organization and equipment herself, and wished she hadn't. It seemed pitifully small.

* * *

_SNOWBIRDS SMCAT _

_Alpha Company_

_Alpha Command ("Snowbird's Own")_

LCDR Sheila Arla-Vlata, _Shruiken_

MechWarrior Kaatha, _Griffin_

MechWarrior Marcus Drax, _Phoenix Hawk_

MechWarrior Frederick Matria, _Chameleon_

_Alpha Recon ("Tessya's Talismen")_

Lance Commander Tessya Blackthorn, _Wasp_

MechWarrior Philip Scott, _Valkyrie_

MechWarrior Kassy Holliday, _Commando_

MechWarrior Ariel Munroe, _Phoenix Hawk_

_Alpha Assault ("The Sasquatches")_

Lance Commander Max Canis-Vlata, _Battlemaster_

MechWarrior Bien Canonizado, _Victor_

MechWarrior Chuck Badaxe, _Atlas_

MechWarrior Cecilia "CeeCee" Masterson, _Zeus_

_Bravo Company_

_Bravo Command ("Snowbird's Wicked Clanners")_

Major Elfa Brownoak, _Loki_

MechWarrior Mary Scott, _Puma_

MechWarrior Larry Stohr, _Dragonfly_

MechWarrior Michael Vragel, _Ryoken_

_Bravo Heavy ("Snowbird's Falcons")_

Lance Commander Senefa Malthus, _Thunderbolt_

MechWarrior Maysa Bari, _Rifleman_

MechWarrior Togan Nordkoping, _Warhammer_

MechWarrior Kahvi Falx, _Dragon_

_Bravo Fire ("The Rakes and Rogues")_

Lance Commander Robert Copeland, _Crusader_

MechWarrior Daniel Polycutt, _Dervish_

MechWarrior Stefan Jones, _Banshee_

MechWarrior Tam Seneca, _Archer_

_Charlie Company_

_Charlie Command ("Tigerstripe's Legionnaires")_

Major Marion Rhialla, _Palladium_

MechWarrior Alfred Dennison, _Palladium_

MechWarrior Brefudd Dari, _Axeman_

MechWarrior Glynnis Griffin, _Panther_

_Charlie Fire ("Kku's Boxahell")_

Lance Commander Tooriu Kku, _Awesome_

MechWarrior Eric Jerome, _Archer_

MechWarrior John Lawson, _Spartan_

MechWarrior Fabian Cynmar, _Catapult_

_Charlie Heavy ("Snowbird's Wolves")_

Lance Commander Peter Nicholas, _Marauder_

MechWarrior Maria Thyatis, _Wolverine_

MechWarrior Michelangelo Burke, _Grasshopper_

MechWarrior Troms Fiordur, _Warhammer_

_Charlie Medium ("The Ferals")_

Lance Commander Megan O'Reilly, _Wolfhound_

MechWarrior Felisanna, _Wolfhound_

MechWarrior Robert Drakon, _Blackjack_

MechWarrior Betsy Drakon, _Blackjack_

_Delta Company_

_Delta Command ("Snowbird's Claws")_

Major David Moore, _Pegasus_

Sgt. John Williams, _Pegasus_

Sgt. Jacqueline Shaw, _Hawkslayer_

Sgt. Vincent Lian, _Patton_

_Delta Combat Support ("The Long Bombers")_

Tank Leader Shasti Buena, _Chuikov_

Sgt. Natasha Tal, _Sturmfeur_

Sgt. Jackson Dinson, _Sniper_

Sgt. William Griffon, _Sniper_

_Delta Elemental Hunters ("The Doom Bunnies")_

Tank Leader Fianna Cassidy, _Ontos_

Sgt. Dennis Dorinson, _Ontos_

Sgt. Susan Johnston, _Manticore_

Sgt. Henri Fromage, _Von Luckner_

_Delta Rifle ("Snowbird's Rifles")_

Tank Leader Archibald Backs, _Lynx_

Sgt. Eric Sykes, _Lynx_

Sgt. Nisa Kinosh, 21 Jump Infantry

* * *

Winston nodded appreciatively. "You seem to have enough striking power here. I especially like the fact that you have added an armored force, artillery, and infantry. Moreover, you have a number of Rasalhagian names here, which will give you knowledge of the ground. However, that is not enough to face a Clan Cluster."

"I know, General," Sheila answered. "It is my intention to avoid combat as much as possible. If we run into too much opposition, I will withdraw from the planet rather than risk a pitched battle against superior odds. Also, the planets I have chosen have either light garrisons or none at all. This is true especially in the case of the Wolf OZ—it appears ilKhan Ulric Kerensky has shoved everything forward to try to push through to Terra before the other Clans. However, my force should give us enough power to get ourselves out of trouble if we do run into heavy opposition."

"I also don't see any airpower here."

"We intend to assign the Snowbirds a full squadron of aerofighters, General," Calla put in. "We just haven't made the selection yet." Sheila knew that was because the Sentinels Aerowing was still in flux, choosing a new commanding officer in the wake of Elizabeth Dowlings' death on Vantaa.

"How accurate is this information?" Field Marshal Poulin wanted to know.

"I believe I can answer that, sir." This came from one of the two men in unmarked uniforms. Now that he was closer, Sheila realized he was a big man, taller than herself and much more broad. "My name is Curaitis, of MIIO. We have verified all of Commander Arla-Vlata's information, with the exception of the resistance movement on New Caledonia. Nonetheless, we do consider that a reasonable possibility; in any case, the objective on New Caledonia will be the mines, not necessarily contacting partisans."

"Very well." Poulin seemed less than satisfied with Curaitis' answer, but since the MIIO agent also didn't look like he would be more forthcoming in any case, continued on. "Commander, I will agree with General Winston that this Operation Rubicon is quite impressive. However, I can tell you what Duke Kelswa will say: it is a propaganda stunt and it will detract from the defense of Tamar and Sudeten."

"Yes, sir, I understand," Sheila said, though inside she was seething. Hadn't she already made this point? "Permission to speak frankly, Field Marshal?"

"Certainly." Poulin leaned back in his seat, looking amused. "Speak your mind, Commander."

"Rubicon will do more to blunt the Clan offensive than sitting inside Tamar City waiting for the Wolves to attack. It has always been my father's belief—among others, such as Patton, Wellington and Alexsandr Kerensky—that fixed fortifications are monuments to the stupidity of man. It is my belief that those walls will not save Tamar or Duke Kelswa, but merely make it easier for the Wolves to destroy him." Sheila put her arms behind her back, mainly to hide their trembling. She was risking her career here, but she also knew she was right. "I reiterate, sir, that the Snowbirds cannot win the war by themselves, nor should we try. But at least we will be striking the enemy as close to home as we can get. The Clans won't know if this is an isolated raid or merely one of many. Rubicon won't save Tamar…but it's better than sitting there, waiting to be hit."

Sheila worried that she had offended Poulin, who was one of Kelswa's appointees, though he had a reputation as being competent in his own right and not merely a toady. Apparently that reputation was true, because he nodded and smiled. "Well said, Commander. I have been trying to make that point to the Duke myself. However, that doesn't address the defense of Sudeten."

Sheila hesitated. She didn't feel qualified to speak about that, and knew it was a private worry even with her father. It was Winston who answered. "Field Marshal, I think we can spare a battalion. There is no guarantee that Sudeten will even be hit while the Snowbirds are gone. What's more, with the arrival of the Gray Death Legion, we're not exactly shorthanded."

"True, but was it not Wellington who said that a battle can be decided by a single battalion?" Poulin obviously relished cutting Sheila with her own knife.

"Wellington won the Peninsular War with the assistance of Spanish guerillas," Calla said. "Napoleon had to devote whole divisions to guarding his supply lines, robbing him of striking power at the front. Moreover, Wellington _attacked._" Military history was Calla's chosen field of expertise; Poulin was at a distinct disadvantage here, and knew it.

"Enough," Morgan proclaimed. "I agree with General Winston: we can spare the Snowbirds." Decision made, he turned to the second man. "Chu-sa, your opinion?"

Sheila was taken aback. Chu-sa was a Kurita rank, but the other heretofore unidentified man was not Oriental; his features were if anything Scandivanian. He nodded to the others. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am Lee Nakamura. I have been assigned by Gunji no Kanrei Theodore Kurita to act as DCMS liasion to the Snowbirds." He looked at Sheila. "I apologize, Commander, for not making my presence known to you sooner. I have been undercover, as it were—which is why I'm not in uniform. It was believed that a Kurita officer at Marshal Hasek-Davion's command post would arouse suspicion. In the interests of secrecy, I have been instructed to report to your unit only if Rubicon is approved." He glanced around the table. "It is my belief—and in this matter I am qualified to speak on behalf of the Kanrei—that this operation should _be_ approved. Besides its obvious military applications, Commander Arla-Vlata is entirely correct: it will serve as a morale boost to my nation as well. For too long, certain factions within the Imperial Court have opposed the Kanrei's attempt at a united front with the Federated Commonwealth, despite our past history as bitter enemies. Having a FedCom unit arriving in Kurita space after taking the fight to the Clans will help relieve those fears. Moreover, we too will benefit from whatever information the Snowbirds gather, as we too intend to launch raids throughout the Smoke Jaguar zones."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Poulin admitted. "With Snord's Irregulars hitting the Dark Nebula and the 1st Somerset Strikers refitting for another strike, we could really do some damage." He turned to Morgan. "I approve of the plan, Marshal." Morgan gave him a nod, but Sheila could see barely suppressed anger there. She had a feeling that the information on Snord and the Somerset Strikers was supposed to be secret.

"I only have three more questions," Winston said. First she looked to Nakamura. "The Snowbirds are mercenaries. I expect that will not go over well with the Kurita people—given that they've been taught to hate us."

Nakamura shrugged. "We would prefer a House unit, of course, but given the political dimension of sending needed House line units to the front, we will be satisfied with mercenaries, for now." Sheila read between the lines on that one: if she failed and the Snowbirds were annilihated, the excuse could simply be made to the DCMS that only so much could be expected of mercenaries, after all. It also meant that she and the Snowbirds were expendable.

"The other question is for Sheila," Winston continued. "How do intend to recharge your Kearny-Fuchida drives on your JumpShips? It's a long shot from New Bergen to Wolcott."

That one she was ready for. "We intend to use uninhabited systems to recharge." It was an old smuggler's trick, highly effective because it was very difficult to track a JumpShip once it made a jump. All that was needed to recharge a KF drive was a sun, and there were thousands scattered throughout the Inner Sphere that didn't support life. "We also intend to use Brocchi's Cluster to recharge our drives before making the final jump to Wolcott." Brocchi's Cluster was a globular star cluster with no less than forty stars inside of it; tracking anyone through it was virtually impossible.

"Excellent. One last question: supplies."

"We'll take enough for two major engagements. There will be two DropShips along with the two the Snowbirds will be using for transport."

"After that?"

"We live off the land." Sheila knew that would be controversial. While feeding MechWarriors was easy enough on all but the most barren of planets, resupplying and repairing 'Mechs was much tougher. It meant having good techs and better scroungers, but even with that, it was a byword among tacticians that modern BattleMech forces simply could not live off the land as Napoleon's forces had done a thousand years previously.

Poulin looked doubtful again. In fact, he looked shocked. "And how do you plan to pull off that miracle, Commander?"

"My techs have assured me that they can adapt Clan munitions to ours. We also have locations of hidden caches on those planets of spare parts and such—which factored into our choosing them. Basic repairs can be done with captured Clan equipment—bearings are bearings, myomers are myomers, and such like. The Clans, like us, build their parts to be universal to a certain extent, so we can use those. If for some reason the Snowbirds _do_ take too much damage, we can always return home."

"I see that, but I've been told adapting Clan munitions to our launchers and autocannons is difficult, if not impossible."

"Your information is incorrect, Field Marshal—with respect." Curaitis steepled his fingers in front of him. "We have extensive reports that the Wolves have already begun using captured supplies to refit their own forces. In fact, that is why MIIO recommended the Snowbirds strike Swedenborg Industries on Kirchbach. Unlike the other Clans, who seem hesitant to use captured equipment, the Wolves have done so on a widespread basis. It's one of the reasons why they have been so successful. The other Clans paused after the third wave of attacks to refit and resupply, but the Wolves did not—they launched a fourth and fifth wave weeks ahead of the other Clans. One reason is that Khan Ulric—now ilKhan Ulric, as we understand—wasn't pausing and waiting for his supplies to come from the Clan homeworlds. He was using captured supplies. Since we have made so many references to ancient military history, let me play as well." A small smile graced Curaitis' features. "This is akin to Patton using captured German gasoline to refuel his tanks to make up for a supply shortfall. Yes, it only gained him a few more kilometers—but it was a few more kilometers closer to Germany. The Wolves are merely doing the same: perhaps only one more planet, but that is one more planet closer to _their_ goal."

"You really think you can supply a 'Mech force in the field this way?" Poulin asked Sheila disbelievingly.

"Yes."

"Despite the fact that everyone says it can't be done."

"Maybe that's because no one's ever tried it…sir," Sheila hastily added.

"You're crazy." Poulin suddenly smiled widely. "I like that."

Morgan rapped his knuckles on the table. "I think it's time we took a vote. All in favor of approving Operation Rubicon?" He raised his hands. Every other hand went up at the same time; Poulin laughed and put up both his hands. "Very well," Morgan said. "Commander Arla-Vlata, Operation Rubicon is a go. When do you plan on leaving?"

"Sir. I'd like to train my people a little longer, then give them a bit of a rest. We were figuring November 28, sir, after Thanksgiving. They're going to have to spend Christmas away from their families as it is, sir—figured I'd at least give them that."

Morgan shook his head. "Sorry, Commander, that won't happen." He pointed to a single sheet of paper in front of him, all that he had brought into the room. "I received this from MIIO an hour ago. The Clans are back on the offensive. The Jade Falcons have struck Goat Path and Apolakkia, while the Wolves are reported on Cusset and Maestu. The Smoke Jaguars are reported to be on Marshdale—that's not confirmed, Chu-sa Nakamura, but considered quite likely. Nothing from the Ghost Bears yet. There's also been a report, unconfirmed, that two other Clans have arrived in the Inner Sphere, Clan Steel Viper and Clan Nova Cat." Morgan glanced at Sheila. "Don't worry, Commander, they're nowhere near where you're going." Morgan folded his hands atop the paper. "I'm sorry, Sheila, but you must be ready to leave Sudeten no later than October 30. Is that possible?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely," Sheila replied, though she wondered if she could. That was only 20 days away. They would find a way, somehow.

"Good. Maybe you'll be back for Christmas, at any rate." Morgan stood, quickly followed by the others. "Ladies and gentlemen, our little lull is over. We're back at full-scale war."


	6. Life and Death

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Wow. I just started rolling with this story for some reason today, so here's another chapter. It's what the late and legendary _Inu-Yasha_ fanfic writer Katherine Batey referred to as "terribly poignant and middle aged" (referring to her superb story "Rebound," not my story), but I hope that it resonates as being a commentary on getting older—something I've been feeling lately…_

_ The point I'm trying to make here is that there is a definite gap between the "old heads," the veterans of the Sentinels and the Snowbirds who have been MechWarriors since the Fourth Succession War, and the "noobs," the people of Sheila's generation who are in their first war. They're two very different generations fighting two very different wars: the old heads have to learn new tricks, and the noobs have to learn as they go. There's a generational gap here, and one that maybe can't be closed. I've seen this echoed in conversations I have had with both Vietnam vets and guys returning from Iraq. Similar experiences, but yet not the same. I just hope it _is_ poignant and not cliched. _

_ The next three or four chapters to close out the story arc are going to be short vignettes, kind of a way to tie up loose ends and introduce plot points that will come up later. Not much action here, but I didn't want to have Sheila give her briefing and the Snowbirds head out the next chapter. From your comments, you've gotten to "know" these characters, so I wanted them to get a little air time too._

_ And because I haven't mentioned it in awhile: please note that my stories are definitely rated PG-13, maybe even R for profanity and implied sexual situations. War brings out the best and worst in people._

_ One final note: I am quite sure that Lifetime will still be around in a thousand years. Something so insidious and evil as the Lifetime Network simply won't die…_

_ The first part of this story is somewhat humorous, while the second part is most certainly not. I'll write something funny next time to make up for it._

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_SulliMike: Heh. Yeah, they will…_

_FraserMage: Actually, you're confused, but I bear the blame for it. I hadn't emphasized as well as I should've in the tank crews' chapter that the Lynx is a hover APC of my own design. (The Canadian Army names their uparmored M113 APCs Lynxes, which is where I got the idea.) I actually designed the Lynx waaay back when I was playing Renegade Legion, and adopted it in Battletech before the LNX-9Q 'Mech came out. So the Lynxes in the Snowbird stories are hover APCs, which should clear up the confusion._

_GreenKnight: I have indeed heard of Gene Valencia! You don't get much past an old Navy hand like my dad. BTW, you should be pleased to know that I included a certain Philippines dish in this chapter…and a certain Filipino guy I've been hearing so much about…_

_Panzerfaust: I initially thought about making Poulin a jerk, but decided that didn't contribute anything to the story. He evidently does survive Tamar, as he's still commanding the Tamar March's forces postwar, according to the _Objective Raids_ sourcebook. As for Curaitis' "burn after reading" info, that's a great idea and I'll keep it in mind. The change of targets thing as well._

_MUSIC CORNER: Certainly Rush's "Time Stand Still," and maybe "The Lonely Shepherd" by Zamfir (from the _Kill Bill_ soundtrack)._

* * *

_Sentinels Officers Quarters, Sentinel Base Sudeten_

_Sudeten,Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_10 October 3051_

Marion Rhialla looked down at her plate. "Good God."

Catherine Houndlikov did the same. "Holy damn."

Elfa Brownoak put down her own plate and looked at them both. "What? Don't tell me you don't like chicken with adobo sauce."

"It's not that," Marion said, "it's just that there's so much of it."

Elfa shrugged. "Sorry. It's just that I've been cooking for myself and Tooriu lately, and he eats like a horse. And occasionally I have Sheila and Max over too…and you'd think for two skinny people like those two, they wouldn't eat much—but they can pack it away."

Marion and Catherine exchanged a glance, then both of them also shrugged and went to eating. "So," Marion said around a forkful of chicken, "where is your fuck buddy tonight?"

Elfa dropped her fork on her plate loudly and gave Marion a glare that would melt 'Mech armor. "Marion, shove it. I don't like you referring to Tooriu like that. We're a lot closer than just screwing around. Yes, he lives with me. Yes, we share a bed, and yes, that boy can send me climbing the walls at the wee hours of the morning. As you probably know, since you live next door. And no, he is not here; he is helping Sheila with mission planning. So, now that we've established that I am shacked up with someone young enough to be my son, can we can your usual profanity and have a nice meal together?"

The light of battle died in Marion's eyes. She had been out of line. "Sorry, Elfa. Maybe I'm just jealous."

"You should be, you old slut."

Catherine let out a cackle and reached for the wine. "Such a collegiate atmosphere tonight. Makes me want to demote myself and join the Snowbirds." She poured for them. "Whatever's between you two, can you _both_ knock it off? We're not going to have many more opportunities for the Old Hag Club. Bad enough that Gina Carabinera bailed on us tonight."

The tension in the room eased at Catherine's mention of the Old Hag Club. It was an informal group of female MechWarrior or aerospace pilot officers: the requirements were that you had to be over forty and have at least ten years of combat service under your belt. Besides the three of them at the table and Gina Carabinera, the Sentinels' resident city-fighting expert, Calla's sister Mira Canis-Vlata was also a charter member, though she rarely attended. Marion had invited Kaatha to show up, despite Kaatha not being an officer, but the other woman had begged off, as she was clearly exhausted. Allegra Grant had similarly politely refused, stating that she had her hands full with a new liasion staff. Normally, Elizabeth Dowlings could be counted on to show up every time, but Dowlings had been killed on Vantaa. So now there was just the three of them, and an atmosphere of gloom had settled on the trio from the moment they had gathered—not helped by another bout of snow that was currently making Reichenberg miserable.

"So why did Gina bail?" Elfa asked, trying to restore some harmony to the table.

"Her company performed poorly during exercises yesterday. She got so pissed that she's keeping them out all night on a field march," Catherine answered.

"Gina's been riding them hard," Marion stated.

"True, but she figures that the fighting on Sudeten's going to end up right here, and she wants her people to know this city like the back of their hands." Catherine motioned with her glass at Marion. "And you're one to talk. You've been riding the Snowbirds hard and putting them away wet. What kind of sadistic bitch orders calisthenics in the middle of a snowstorm?"

"One who's trying to make a bunch of misfits into a combat battalion," Marion smiled. Actually, she was quite pleased with the training. Marion had been ordered by Sheila to integrate the new hires and the tank crews into the "old heads" of the Snowbirds, and Marion had taken to the job with customary gusto. Unlike on Outreach, however, she was dealing with an overwhelming majority of combat veterans, who knew the value of teamwork and hard training, and responded much more quickly and easily to the tough regimen. They griped at MechWarriors and tank crews having to mess together, and having to do full field pack runs and basic weapons training, and at plenty of other things—but it was good natured griping. No one knew what the Snowbirds would be doing or where, but they knew that Marion was being hard on them for a reason. Also unlike on Outreach, where the median age of Marion's trainees had been eighteen, here it was thirty. Only a small handful had never been in a fight, and easily two-thirds of the battalion had fought the Clans. They knew what was at stake, and that the training would save lives—namely, theirs.

Marion too was helped by Senefa Malthus, who had become a treasure trove of knowledge. Along with the physical routine, there was also classwork, which the Snowbirds loathed. Quickly, however, they began to appreciate it. Senefa was passing on everything she knew about her former brethren, and if Senefa had a bad tendency to go off on tangents and drone, she was giving them precious hints on how to beat the Clans. Already Marion had recommended Senefa expand her lectures to the rest of the regiment's officers. The former Clanswoman had readily acquiesced; Marion had already noticed that Senefa was a workaholic. Then again, she was from a culture where everything in society was geared towards war, so that was understandable.

This was not to say that there were not a few problems. Kahvi Falx was as green as grass: her English was still only fair, and she had insulated herself from the rest of the battalion—a result, Marion knew, of her ostracization at Sun Zhang Military Academy. She was a capable MechWarrior and responded to orders with crisp efficiency, but she was timid and scared, if determined. Sheila had noticed it as well and assigned Kahvi to Senefa's lance, where she would team with Maysa Bari. If anyone could bring Kahvi out of her shell, it was the gregarious Maysa. Marion felt a burst of pride for her adopted daughter, who was not only becoming a great MechWarrior, but also a great young woman.

As if reading her mind, Catherine spoke up. "So what happened the other day at Wilhelmina Bay? I understand there was a bit of a kerfuffle."

"Oh Lord," Elfa laughed. "You want me to tell the story, Marion, or do you want the honors?"

"Allow me," Marion said. She took a drink of wine. "Well, Cathy, I figured the best way to get the Snowbirds acquainted with each other was to take them swimming. It was a beautiful day down south, so I stuck them aboard a DropShip and we went down there."

"And you of course didn't inform them they'd be swimming," Catherine observed. "You didn't, Marion."

"I did. Made 'em strip to their underwear. Found out that our resident goth girl Kassy Holliday doesn't believe in underwear." Marion chuckled. "I was tempted to make her swim around the bay naked, but decided that the guys didn't need to be distracted. Lucky for her I brought a spare swimsuit."

"Did they all know how to swim this time? I remember you pulling that stunt when you had Ceta/4 and damn near drowning Yoriyoshi Kazakawa because he didn't know how."

"Yeah, they all knew how to doggy paddle, anyway. So, anyhow, one of the new guys, Daniel Polycutt, he's got to prove he's a tough guy, and he's a damn good swimmer. He takes the lead on everyone. That treadhead Eric Sykes, who supposedly was a Blackjack School champion triathlete? No chance. Maysa, who could outswim a dolphin? Forget it, she's left in the dust, a distant second--"

"Is there anything that prodigy of yours can't do?" Elfa interrupted. She looked at Catherine. "The battalion's started calling her Saint Maysa, because she's good at everything."

Marion looked indignant. "Hey, this is my story!" Elfa made an elaborate show of yielding the floor to Marion. "So anyhow, Dan gets to the beach before everyone else, comes out of the surf like friggin' MacArthur, and…" She stopped, grinning at Catherine. "Can you guess?"

"With your weirdos, there's no telling," Catherine replied deadpan.

"Apparently our little speed demon lost his boxers somewhere in the bay. So he gets out, turns around and, well, Mister John Thomas is there for everyone to see. The dumbshit didn't realize it for a few seconds either, or he's a pervert."

"Oh, I doubt that," Elfa snickered, "because he hit the dirt like we were being shelled. Not before our little Saint Maysa got an eyeful, though. I wish I could be a fly on the wall in Father Mac's confessional on Saturday! She turned as red as a heat gauge. I thought I was going to have to fold Maysa's tongue back up in her mouth."

Catherine let out a great sigh and shook her head, but she was smiling. "Sick. You Snowbirds are really sick. I need some wine to put these fires out…" She took another drink. "Good wine, Elfa. Surprised we're not drinking something a little harder, though."

"I'm trying to cut back," Elfa said quickly, a little too much so. Marion raised a finger, got up, and reached into the duffel she had brought along. She held up a six pack of Timbiqui Dark. "After dinner," Elfa insisted. Marion ignored her and popped open a can.

"Any other tangy tales?" Catherine asked. "I heard you've got some real macho types over there too."

"Peter Nicholas?" Elfa looked at Marion.

"Oh God," Marion moaned. "That little bastard is gunning for a medal or a promotion. He thinks screaming at his lance at the top of his lungs is motivating the troops."

"Must've learned it from you," Catherine quipped.

Marion ignored her as well. "He got Maria Thyatis to the point of tears. We're going to have to keep an eye on her and Charles Badaxe, too. They might just frag him. He'd better not turn his back to Chuck or he's going to get an AC/20 shell as a suppository."

"He's your problem, not mine," Elfa smiled back sweetly. "_I've_ got our new friend Robert 'Call Me Bob' Copeland and Stefan Jones."

"The new liasion officer?" Catherine asked. "He a problem?"

"Maybe. Apparently he got into it with Sheila. Said the wrong thing, and she let him have it. He's been trying to make it up, but he sounds more like a used-car salesman. Bob's got a wheedling tone I can't stand."

"So what's Stefan's problem?" Marion asked. "He's a good joe. Solid as a rock."

"Not lately," Elfa corrected. "The man absolutely loathes Senefa. I transferred him over to Copeland's lance, but it hasn't gotten any better. It's not that he's been slacking, but he's been saying some things when he thinks I'm out of earshot. Copeland's so afraid of making waves that he won't tell Stefan to shut his trap. I suppose I'll have to do it, but I hate undercutting a new lance commander."

"I don't know why you cotton so much to that Clanner," Catherine said.

"Because she's a damn fine MechWarrior and she's willing to put her ass on the line," Marion shot back, the light of battle in her eyes.

Catherine didn't give an inch. "She turned on her own people, Tigerstripe. How can we be sure she won't do it to us?"

"Cathy." Elfa's tone gave a warning. "Senefa's a Snowbird. End of story. You know the rule."

Catherine hesitated, then went back to finishing her plate in silence. The Snowbirds might say plenty about Senefa in the privacy of the battalion barracks, but they would not tolerate someone of another battalion badmouthing her. The same was true of the other battalions, and of the Sentinels themselves: fight with one of us, scramble with all of us. Since that sort of solidarity was something Catherine herself strongly promoted, she could not and would not go against it.

Once everyone was done with dinner—Elfa went back for seconds, and Marion had another beer—the three retired to "the parlor," better known as Elfa's small living room. Quarters had been assigned by seniority, which meant that older MechWarriors tended to get better spots than newly minted lance commanders; it was one reason why Sheila and Max were staying at the Hyatt rather than the officers' quarters on base. Elfa took the recliner, while Marion and Catherine curled up on the sofa. Marion's joints creaked audibly when she sat down. "Oh damn," she said. "Getting old stinks."

"Just how old are you now?" Elfa chided.

"Ten thousand." Marion took a draught of beer. "So what now, girls? Shall we sit around and maunder about our advancing age? Or should we watch Lifetime? Or—my choice—should we get stupid drunk and talk shop?"

"I'm up for option three," Elfa replied, pouring herself some mineral water, "except for the stupid drunk part. I've got the duty in the morning."

"Sounds good to me," Catherine agreed. "I, sadly, can no longer drink all night and stay up all day. You were right, Marion…getting old stinks." She finished off the wine. "So, Elfa, how far along are you?" Elfa choked and actually spit out her water. Marion laughed, thinking it was an act, but Catherine was as serene as a monk. She merely waited until Elfa had finished hacking, then raised an eyebrow at her. "Well?"

There was silence for a long few moments, then Elfa sighed. "Two months, thereabouts."

Marion suddenly realized that Elfa and Catherine were not joking. "Wait…Elfa, you're really pregnant?"

It was Elfa's turn to raise an eyebrow. "That does tend to happen when you're having regular unprotected sex, Marion. Don't they teach that in Liao space?"

"But you're—"

"Forty-three." Elfa laughed softly. "Nice to know I'm fertile. I tried to have a baby with my first husband, but we never could concieve. All this time, I thought it was _me_ shooting blanks." She tossed back the water. "Oh well."

Marion was stunned. "But Elfa…Tooriu's young enough to be your son!"

"So? Melissa Steiner's damn near young enough to be Hanse's. That didn't stop them, and she's shoved out how many kids? Six? Political marriage, my ass."

"Are you going to keep it?"

"Of course I'm going to keep it, moron! Some Catholic _you_ are."

"When are you due?" Catherine asked, though all three already knew the answer.

"April or May. I'll have to come off of ops around Feburary. I expect we'll be back from whatever Sheila's planning by then. If not…" Elfa grinned. "Remember Kaname Stykkis having to deliver her baby in her _Commando?_ No wonder Mimi turned out screwy."

"Don't remind me," Catherine groaned. "We had to tie her ankles to the console sides while Mira Canis acted as midwife because she was the only one small enough to get in the cockpit with Kaname. Meanwhile Doc Rabbit is squatting on top of the head yelling down instructions, and I'm sitting there next to him with a pair of binoculars looking for Kurita infantry. I wasn't sure what scared me more—that or the fact that Kaname kept flailing around and I thought for sure she was going to accidentally pull the ejection handles. It's funny now, but damn, that was scary."

"And Calla cussing a blue streak over the radio because he thought Kaname had lied about how far along she was. He didn't know Mimi was a preemie." Marion laughed. "Man, if the civvies only knew some of the shit that happens to us…" She pulled another beer from its box. "Well, let's celebrate. It's been awhile since I've been to a christening."

* * *

_Base Hospital, Sentinel Base Sudeten_

_Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_11 October 3051_

Kaatha looked out the window over the courtyard of the hospital. It was adjacent to the barracks assigned to the Snowbirds, and, with space at a premium on base, Marion Rhialla had quickly appropriated it as an exercise yard for the unit. Sudeten had gotten a good snowfall the night before—six inches, about as much as it ever did—but Marion had not let up on the training. In fact, she had emphasized that it was going to intensify. Battalion rumor had it that the Snowbirds were due to leave Sudeten for the front very soon, perhaps as soon as the end of the month. Sheila had told Kaatha nothing and Kaatha knew better than to ask, but the old veteran saw the look in her commander's eyes and knew the Snowbirds' days on Sudeten were now numbered. Since it was required for everyone in the unit to get a full health check before they went on extended operations, Kaatha decided to get a jump on everyone and made an immediate appointment. She hadn't been feeling well lately anyway, and wanted to be at the top of her game for the upcoming operation.

She smiled as she watched the scene below her. Contrary to popular belief, Marion was not completely heartless, and in response to the Snowbirds' request to emulate their namesake bird and play in the snow, she had allowed them to do that instead of physical training. Sides had been chosen—inevitably, MechWarriors versus tank crews—and were now going at it in the form of horseback fights. Two people served as the "horse," linking their arms together to form a saddle for the "rider," who put their legs around the "horse's" necks and did the fighting with their hands. The "horse" used their legs to fight as well. Kaatha reflected that it was just as well that they were doing the horseback fights next to the hospital, since it could easily end in contusions and broken bones. Certainly Kaatha had suffered her share of bumps and bruises. MechWarriors, and tankers too it seemed, lived life hard and played hard.

In the crowd of horses and riders, Kaatha quickly picked out her daughter among them. Felisanna enjoyed the notoriety her shockingly pink mohawk gave her, and had quickly formed an alliance with the other Snowbird resident battalion rebel, Kassy Holliday. Completing the trio was Bien Canonizado, who evidently thought a great deal for Felisanna. Now Bien and Kassy formed the horse, and Felisanna the rider. Felisanna had discarded her field jacket and fought in a decidedly non-regulation—and, Kaatha thought with a sigh—too small halter top, despite the cold. Kaatha knew she did it to distract her male opponents, who would be too busy staring at her breasts and would relish the idea of grappling with Felisanna.

Kaatha wondered where she had gone wrong. Kaatha and Renni had decided on just having one child—"Better just to have one orphan," he had joked with gallows humor so typical of him—despite the sect they belonged to insisting on large families. Because of their religious beliefs, they did not take a last name, because all they owned was communal with the church they belonged to. Felisanna had gone to school, been a model student and child, and even refused to play with the other regiment's children, such as Sheila Arla-Vlata, Maysa Bari, and Mimi Stykkis, because she was afraid it would interfere with her studies.

Then, at about the time Felisanna had hit puberty at fifteen, something had snapped. She seemed to rebel overnight, doing such forbidden things as listening to acid rock, cutting and dying her hair in bizarre forms, and gorging herself on fast food, all of which were considered sinful. To this day, Kaatha had never discovered what had changed with her daughter. Her grades dropped along with her church attendance, and though Renni had come down on her hard, grounding her and giving her a sound beating across the rear end, Felisanna had only intensified her rebellion. She had managed to keep her grades good enough and easily passed the exams to enlist in the Sentinels as a MechWarrior, but as soon as she was able, she had moved out of the house and into the barracks, where her hedonistic lifestyle had only increased. Renni had decided to disown her formally, though he had agreed to wait until after they had returned from Blackjack to tell Felisanna that she was cut off for good—shunned—from her family and her church.

Then Renni had died, giving his life for his friends in the highest traditions of his beliefs, and had saved a whole company from being overrun. Kaatha had been heartbroken, but had refused to seek another husband as her pastor had advised her, saying that she could never be so blessed twice in a short life. The church had understood, closed around her, and kept her from falling into despair. Instead, Kaatha had volunteered for the Snowbirds, and threw herself into her work, helping her young and inexperienced commander forge the battalion. To her surprise, Felisanna had joined as well. Kaatha had hoped for a reconciliation with her daughter, and initially they had gotten back together, feeling their way towards a rapprochement by "dinner dates" and the occasional holovid. But when Kaatha had opposed the rescue mission for Sheila on Vantaa, that had ended. Felisanna was so angry that she had requested, and gotten, a transfer to another lance. Now she was as stonily silent to her mother as before, though she was certainly enjoying herself as much as one could in the middle of a war. As Kaatha watched, Felisanna ruffled Bien's and Kassy's hair affectionately, her laughter audible even to her mother three stories and some distance away, as they looked for another target, having left Henri Fromage gasping in the snow.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Kaatha turned to see Doc Rabbit come into the room. Rabbit was well into his fifties and easily could have named his own price at any major city hospital in the Inner Sphere, but chose to remain with the Sentinels despite much less pay; he was devoted to the regiment as much or more than its commanders. He had delivered many of the Sentinels' babies and written the death certificates of its fallen warriors, not a few times for the same person. His real name was Richard Galvas, but he was called Rabbit because of his prominent buckteeth and thick glasses. Kaatha knew that many of the younger Sentinels didn't even know Rabbit's real name. "Have a seat."

"I'll stand, thank you. My back has been giving me trouble lately." She ventured a smile. "I suppose I'm getting too old for this."

"Could be." He consulted his holopad. "You're forty-six, Kaatha?"

"Yes," she answered, though she wondered why Rabbit had asked. Obviously he knew the answer. "A bit of an old maid, I'm afraid—Renni and I had our child a little later in life than most."

"How old is Felisanna now? I haven't seen her in awhile."

"She's twenty-one." Kaatha now knew Rabbit was stalling. He knew very well how old Felisanna was, and as for not seeing her, there was no way he could've missed her roughhousing in the courtyard. "Doctor, we've known each other too long for you to bullshit me." That brought his head up; Kaatha rarely cursed. It was considered something of a mortal sin to her beliefs. "What is going on? Tell me straight—I know that I've been sick, and rather tired lately, which is unusual for me."

"Yeah, it is." Rabbit looked at the pad, nodded once, and faced Kaatha squarely. "Kaatha, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm going to give it to you straight, as you ask. You've got cancer."

Kaatha had steeled herself for bad news, but it still hit like a PPC bolt. "Cancer?" she whispered. That she hadn't been prepared for. "What kind?"

Rabbit's face was unreadable. "Pancreatic." He moved forward to grab her as she slumped against the window, but she waved him off. She managed to stay on her feet, but wrapped her arms around herself. So that explained it: the loss of appetite she had lately, the exhaustion, the yellowish tint to her skin she had noticed. "I thought I had a touch of malaria," she said with a small smile. "I nearly died from that once when the Sentinels were on Zebelgenubi." Not wanting to show weakness in front of the doctor, Kaatha drew herself up. "How bad?"

Now Rabbit's face was working—he was trying to hold back tears. This from a man who regularly saw friends and old comrades come in with limbs missing, who had seen Mimi Stykkis carted in, unable to move below the waist, who had made the decision to amputate the arm of Sheila Arla-Vlata, both who had once been little girls he had delivered. "Very," he struggled out. He went back to the holopad, taking comfort in the familiar. "Pancreatic cancer is just about the worst I've come across. It doesn't give a lot of warning signs."

_Not that I would've noticed,_ Kaatha thought to herself. She had not allowed herself to notice her symptoms; there was too much to do. "How long?" was her next question.

"Hard to say. Three to six months." He put a hand on her shoulder. "But that's if you leave it untreated, Kaatha. We've developed a lot of new treatments in just the last few years alone. Hell, we've virtually cured breast cancer! With aggressive chemotherapy and surgery, you could beat this. The survival rate has jumped to twenty percent—and you're in pretty good shape for a woman your age; it might be as high as thirty percent."

"Hm. That's about my survival rate in combat against the Clans."

"Exactly," Rabbit nodded. "You can beat this, Kaatha. It's not like you haven't paid your dues. You can retire with dignity."

Kaatha looked back to the courtyard. "Chemotherapy and surgery." Rabbit nodded again, more vigorously. "I lose my hair, possibly my bodily functions, and I'll be so weak I won't even be able to play cribbage. For a thirty percent chance at life."

"Kaatha, thirty percent—"

"Which means there is a _seventy_ percent chance I will die anyway."

"That's not the way you look at it," Rabbit said angrily. He tossed the holopad on the bed. "I know what you're thinking, Kaatha, and I'm not going to condone it. I won't sign off on your medical release. I'll march right out of here and tell Sheila to her face what's wrong with you."

Kaatha whirled on Rabbit, the look on her face so intense that he took a step backward. "No, you will not, Richard. Because if you do, I will claim religious discrimination. You _do_ know that my faith believes that God fixes one's life at the very beginning. It is my time. If you truly care about my dignity, then you will let me end my life as I have lived it."

"As a MechWarrior?" Rabbit threw up his hands. "Jes—I mean, damn," he hastily corrected, because Kaatha did not like blasphemy and packed a mean left hook. "I expect this macho bullshit from MechWarriors, but this is ridiculous, Kaatha! You're throwing your life away."

"Can you prescribe medicine to keep me going? I don't want to be a burden."

"I won't do it," Rabbit insisted, but his shoulders slumped, and Kaatha knew that he would. "It's not fair," he said quietly. "I can save your life, Kaatha."

"For what, my friend?" Kaatha replied gently. "My husband is gone. My daughter hates me. What remains of my life is out there." She pointed out the window. "The Snowbirds can ill afford to lose a MechWarrior of my experience. I don't want to die by inches alone."

Rabbit was silent for a moment, then picked up the holopad. "You know, Kaatha, _my_ religious beliefs say this is a sin. Maybe a mortal one." Then he pulled out the stylus on the side of the pad and signed it, giving Kaatha clearance to return to operations. "Sheila _and_ Calla are going to have my head for this."

"Don't tell them." Kaatha paused. "Don't tell my daughter either. I don't want anyone to know."

"They will soon enough." Rabbit tucked the holopad under his arm. "I'll go write your medication. Might take a while; Pharmacy's backlogged, as usual. Do you want to come back in an hour?" Secretly, Rabbit was hoping Kaatha would return to her senses, but he knew that she was set in her decision. Throughout a long life of medicine, Rabbit had seen many—too many—face their own death. Some faced it quietly. Some screamed in terror until death at last took them. Some died cursing their enemies, and some died blessing others. None, he thought, seemed so serene as Kaatha did at the moment. "Where will you be?"

Kaatha smiled. "I think I'll go play in the snow."

"Well, don't break anything." Rabbit sighed and hesistated at the door. "Kaatha, I don't know whether to ask God to bless you or to damn you."


	7. Date Night!

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Short and sweet one tonight. A little more lighthearted than the last one, though somewhat bittersweet too. _

_ Again, this chapter is very PG-13. I probably better tone it back a bit…_

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_4477: Well, we'll see._

_Rogue: You should like this chapter too, then._

_GreenKnight: Mother-in-law? Not yet!_

_MUSIC CORNER: "Love is Blue" by Paul Mariat (of course), and "Tell Me a Bedtime Story" by Herbie Hancock._

_Sentinels Officers' Quarters, Sentinel Base Sudeten_

_Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_16 October 3051_

Marion Rhialla cast her eyes at the ceiling when the doorbell chimed. "Dammit." She threw down the remote and got up, wincing as her knees popped. "The one time I give everyone the day off…" Actually, Sheila had given the Snowbirds a day off, worried that Marion might be pushing everyone too hard, but Marion felt the decision was hers.

Maysa Bari stuck her head around the partition from the tiny kitchen in the apartment. "Want me to get it, Mama?"

"No, I've got it." Marion hid her smile. Though she only did it in the privacy of their shared home, Marion liked it when Maysa called her mama. Marion was Maysa's formal guardian, though both she and the Sentinels regarded the teenager as the regiment's daughter in a way no other child of the Sentinels could claim. Still, after three failed marriages that produced no children, Marion was glad to have someone who called her mother in an affectionate fashion.

Marion flung open the door; mama comment or not, she was annoyed to have to get up from watching a particularly interesting holovid. She found herself face to face with Daniel Polycutt, who was dressed in the formal powder-blue and white uniform of the Snowbirds, complete with one row of campaign ribbons and cape. Where he had gotten the uniform Marion wanted to know, because she knew quite well that none of the "noobs" had been issued one yet. "What the hell do you want?" she demanded.

Polycutt squared his shoulders, then gave a very correct Lyran-style bow, clicking his heels together in the approved Prussian fashion. "Major Rhialla. I am very sorry to disturb you." He reached into a pocket and proferred an embossed card with his name, rank, and contact information. "I have come to call on MechWarrior Maysa Bari. My card, ma'am." Rhialla blinked twice, and for one of the few times in her life, found herself rendered speechless. "Is Miss Bari here, ma'am?"

Marion was still a few steps behind. "Call on her?"

"Yes, ma'am." Seeing that Marion was completely mystified, not to mention completely in shock, he added helpfully, "I've come to ask her out to dinner, ma'am—with your approval, of course."

"Ask…her out?" Marion had been Maysa's guardian for all of her sixteen years, and not once had she planned on this. Had she not been so stunned, she would've chided herself for being poorly prepared for such a sortie.

"Ask who out?" Maysa had come up from behind Marion and stood on tiptoe to peer over her shoulder. "Oh, hi, MechWarrior Polycutt." She instantly blushed, as did he, because both simutaneously remembered his faux pas at Wilhelmina Bay.

He was a brave man, however, and took his life in his hands by gently pushing a pale Marion Rhialla out of the way and taking a single step to the threshold of the door. Once more, he handed over his card, clicked his heels, and bowed. "Miss Bari, I've come to call on you."

"Call on me?" Maysa was as clueless as her mother.

"Yes. Would you do me the honor of going to dinner with me?" He smelled whatever was cooking, and cursed his stomach for rumbling. "Or perhaps another time, as you're already preparing dinner."

"Oh." Maysa smiled hugely. "You can stay for dinner, Mister Polycutt."

"No, please, I couldn't," Polycutt said quickly, because he could think of no bigger disaster to his romantic ideas than a dinner with Rhialla glowering at him over the table. "I will call another time. But for now, please, accept a small token of my appreciation." His left hand, which had been behind his back, came out and he handed Maysa a white rose. She gasped, blushed, and took it with a shaking hand. White roses were her favorite, something that was not general knowledge among the Sentinels or the Snowbirds.

Marion's mind abruptly whirred back to life. She blinked again, grabbed Polycutt, and shoved him back into the hall. "Why, you little—who told you you could come into my house? I should break you in half!"

"I'm sorry, Major, I meant no disrespect—"

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't!" Marion just resisted slamming him into the nearest wall. "Asking to 'call' on Maysa—after you whipped out your schlong on the beach the other day, you little bastard! I know what you want!"

Polycutt managed to blush and go pale at the same time. "But I didn't—I'm not—that's not—"

Maysa gently reached out and put her hands on Marion's shoulders. "Mama, can I talk with you for a moment?" She smiled so achingly sweetly at Polycutt he worried his heart would burst. "Excuse us, sir." Maysa half-dragged Marion into the apartment and closed the door. He blew out a breath, then smoothed his uniform, trying not to eavesdrop. He still couldn't help but hear mutterings he couldn't understand, then a single shout, "_Quit trying to baby me!"_ which, to his surprise, came from the notoriously soft-spoken Maysa. It was followed by a flood of obscenity that claimed Daniel Polycutt's parents were not married, that his father had harbored illicit desires for his own mother, and that Dan's mother was probably a female dog. _That_ was followed by another shrill scream from Maysa for her mother not to talk about "MechWarrior Polycutt" like that. Then the door went silent.

It was quiet for a dangerously long time, then the door slid open, revealing a distinctly unhappy Marion Rhialla. "All right, _Mister_ Polycutt," she growled, "I'm going to allow you to court Miss Bari."

"Yay!" Maysa exclaimed unseen from a side room.

Marion sent an evil glance in Maysa's general direction, then shooed Polycutt further down the hall. She put her face into his. "Listen to me, Mister. Courting is _all_ you will do. You will have her back by 2200 Hours, and if you're a second late, I will assume she has been kidnapped and react accordingly. If there is a hair on her head out of place or a wrong crease in her uniform, I will assume that you attempted to get into her pants. Then I will kill you in the most drawn-out, painful fashion I can devise." She poked him in the chest. "I _will_ check to make sure her virginity is intact, Mister, and I am not fucking around here. There are plenty of accidents I can devise to end your miserable existence, and Commander Arla-Vlata will believe me, not you, got me?"

Polycutt nodded hastily. "Major, please, that is not my intention." Which was true: Daniel Polycutt was an honorable man, and intended to make no romantic overtures to Maysa unless she initiated it. He did have _some_ sexual interest—after all, there was biology to consider—but as far as he was concerned, that would only happen after marriage, not a second sooner, and this was merely a first, hesitant step in that direction. He figured that chances were not in his favor that he had much of a chance with Saint Maysa, but he had to try.

"Are you a virgin?" Marion demanded.

"Y-Yes."

"Liar. I know how things work at the 'Ring. It's part of initiation—hen-raiding." She referred to the practice of male cadets at the Nagelring organizing panty raids on the female dorms, often carrying back albeit willing ladies as spoils of war. Sheila, to the best of Marion's knowledge, had never allowed herself to be carted off, but her roommate Mimi certainly had. "Did you ever engage in hen-raiding, Mister?"

"No!" Polycutt half-yelled. "I would never do that, ma'am—I was raised in a good Episcopalian—"

"Shut up! Keep your eyes on that wall, Mister Polycutt, until I am done talking to you." Marion's eyes seemed to bore holes in him like a large laser through armor. "You drink, Mister?" He shook his head. "Bullshit. I bet you drink. Everybody drinks. How about drugs? You like to smoke a bong every now and then? Maybe crack? How about Krazyee? You do Krazyee, Mister Polycutt?" Polycutt was shaking his head now as if suffering a seizure. Krazyee was a highly addictive hallucinogen that was illegal everywhere in the Inner Sphere; grounds for being caught with it was instant court-martial in every Inner Sphere military and death in the Draconis Combine.

Suddenly, the door opposite to them slammed open, revealing Elfa Brownoak, dressed in a loose-fitting kimono that left little to the imagination. She looked distinctly upset. "Marion," she snarled, "will you give it a break? The kid is asking Maysa out on a date, not for her hand in marriage. I can hear you giving him the third degree in here, for God's sake, and if you _don't_ mind, I'm trying to concentrate in here! I'm busy!" It was pretty obvious what she had been busy at.

"Shove it," Marion shot back. "I want to know what kind of man—"

"You shove it!" Elfa stepped out and poked Marion in the chest with enough force for her fingernail to break the skin. "Look at him, you old hag! He's dressed in a formal uniform, he's presenting a _card_, for the love of Freud, and you're acting like he showed up in cutoffs with a bowl of Mary Jane in his hand!" She poked Marion twice more. "Maysa is almost seventeen, Marion! She should've been dating a long time ago! My God, I was dating when I was thirteen!" Marion turned red and opened her mouth to say something, but Elfa slapped her hand over her mouth. "And I was a virgin when I got married the first time, so that doesn't mean I was loose." She let go of Marion, turned her back, and marched back into her quarters. Tooriu Kku had also come to the door, wearing a towel, and shared a glance with Polycutt. Seeing that Marion was distracted, he gave Polycutt a thumbs-up and mouthed "good luck" to the other MechWarrior. He quickly retreated back under cover when he saw that Marion's attention was back on Elfa, who defiantly turned around, gave Marion an utterly pitying look, and slammed the door.

"I'm ready!" Maysa half-skipped out of the apartment. She had also changed into a formal uniform, tied her hair back into its customary ponytail, and looked positively angelic. If she had heard any of Elfa's words, she gave no sign. "Where are we going, Daniel?"

"Uh…" Polycutt recovered his senses. "I was thinking the Heidelhaus, downtown…"

"German! Oh my gosh, I love weinerschnizel!" She stood on tiptoe again and kissed Marion on the cheek. Marion looked as if she had experienced sensory overload, but shook her head and looked forlornly at her adopted daughter and her sudden suitor. "Don't worry, Mama, I'll be on time. You know me better than that."

"I hope so," Marion said. She looked at Polycutt. She still retained enough of her anger that her glare was quite enough to send Polycutt into retreat. He continued to look worriedly over his shoulder as Maysa led him out, she prattling about she hadn't had German cuisine in ages. When they had gone, Marion remained in the hallway for awhile. "My little Maysa…" she said wistfully, then looked at Elfa's door. Grinning wickedly, she kicked the door viciously then went back into her own quarters. "I need a drink."

* * *

An hour later, Daniel Polycutt and Maysa Bari were having a very pleasant dinner, Maysa munching on a breadstick. "So, did you get the new upgrade on your _Dervish_?" Maysa asked suddenly.

Polycutt, who had been reflecting on how the restaurant's lights brought out just how red Maysa's hair was and trying not to make a babbling fool of himself, was brought up short. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Took it out on trials yesterday."

"Did it work okay?" He nodded, and Maysa aped the motion. "Good. Master Tech Nicia was a little worried about that. She says it's really underarmored for its size."

"That's true…but it's a fire support 'Mech. I don't want to get in close unless I have to."

"You could rip the Streak SRMs off the arms and put in some Artemis IV fire control systems, plus a little more armor."

"Yeah, I could, but I'm used to having the SRMs. They're good to have against infantry and tanks, plus I really like that new Streak system. Only fires if it gets a lock, doesn't generate any more heat—pretty neat. I have to watch out for heat, even with the new doubles."

"Oh yeah, me too." Maysa washed down the breadstick with a glass of water. Neither had ordered alcohol; Polycutt had originally planned on a little wine, to complete the romantic ideal of dinner, but the thought of Marion Rhialla smelling it on his breath made his blood run cold.

"I'm not surprised, you being in a _Rifleman…_" His voice trailed off. "Maysa, we're sitting here talking shop."

"So what?" Maysa folded her hands on the table. "We're MechWarriors, Dan. This is what we do. What did you want to talk about?"

He hesitated, then chuckled self-consciously. "Beats me."

"Exactly. Hey. I was field-stripping lasers when I was ten, Dan. I love my work. Not the killing," she insisted. "But the Sentinels are my life. I can't dream of being something besides a MechWarrior or a tech. I can't change—nor do I want someone to try." She looked pointedly at him.

He put up his hands defensively. "Hey, I don't want to. I mean, that's what I think I want in a wife. A civvie just won't understand." Polycutt suddenly realized what he had just said. "Oh shit…uh, I mean, oh darn. Sorry. I just stuck my foot in my mouth again."

"Well, at least you didn't lose your shorts." She grinned mischeviously at his blush, though she was blushing too. He liked when she did that. "Sorry! I probably shouldn't have brought that up."

"No, no…it's okay. I wanted to apologize for that."

Maysa was quiet for a moment. "Nothing to apologize for." She suddenly smiled at him. "I mean, you're not the first person that's happened to!" Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "This one time, we were camped out on Vantaa, right? It was just before Sheila got captured in the Massanutten Valley. Well, anyways, Felisanna decides she's gonna take a birdbath because it's been hot and humid and the heat sinks in her _Wolfhound_ were fritzing out…stupid TharHes heat sinks. The ceramic cracks too easy, and…well, anyways," Maysa continued, realizing she was about to get off on a Nicia Caii-style rant, "she takes off her cooling vest and just drops her underwear, right there in the mess tent!" Maysa shuddered. "I was pretty shocked. I mean, Felisanna isn't Miss Tact, and it was just me and her in there, but still—and then—"

"Someone walked in," Polycutt smirked.

"Yeah! And you'll never guess who." He shook his head. "Max! That's right, the Commander's hubby. So there's Felisanna standing there in her birthday suit, and Max just freezes!" She laughed. "Then _Tooriu_ walks in. He just says, 'Scuse me, bud' to Max and gets himself a soda, looks at Felisanna, who's just as shocked as me and Max, and says, ''Sup, when did you start shaving down there' and leaves like nothing's wrong, dragging Max out!" Maysa collapsed in giggles. "You could've knocked me over with a feather, and Felisanna—I think she got dressed in three seconds flat!"

Polycutt laughed as well, and that had reminded him of a funny story about how he and his lancemates had painted a clown face on a particularly mean local House unit commander's _Atlas_, and they laughed without reservations, friends.

Maysa suddenly perked up, holding up a hand for silence. "Oh!"

"What is it?" he asked.

"That song they're playing. It's _Love is Blue._ Paul Mariat. They played that at Max and Sheila's wedding. Ancient music, but oh, it's so beautiful…"

_You're beautiful,_ Polycutt thought. He swallowed. "Would…you…uh…would you like to dance?"

Maysa stared down at her plate, her face as red as her hair, then slowly nodded. "I'd like that very much."

* * *

"That lucky bastard." Kassy Holliday looked over at where Polycutt was leading Maysa Bari onto the dance floor. "Ol' Miss Bari's gonna lose her sainthood tonight."

Cecilia Masterson looked over the table at Holliday. "Not if he wants to live. Marion Rhialla's her guardian. She'll have his balls for a necktie if he so much as unbuttons her collar."

"Yeah, well…it's pretty obvious what he wants." Holliday rolled her eyes. "Men. Glad I gave up on them. They're all pigs."

"No, no," Masterson chided. She took a forkful of salad and wagged it in Holliday's face. "None of that, now. They're not all bad."

Holliday seized the fork with her lips and pulled back slowly, suggestively. Masterson felt her heart miss a beat. "Stop that," she said quietly. "I don't want people to know about us."

The other woman chewed and swallowed. "Really? I understand you practically did everything but sing 'I Wish I Was a Lesbian' at your interview. The Commander knows you're gay." She shrugged. "And I don't think she really gives a damn about it."

"You like her?"

"I think so. She don't take shit off nobody, and she treats us right. Hell, she doesn't have to do PT with us every morning, but she does. I think all Sheila cares about is if we can fight. We'll prove _that_ soon enough."

"That's not my point." Masterson pushed her salad around on her plate. "I don't want her to know about _us_, Kassy. Not because we're lesbians—I think you're right, she doesn't care—but because we're in different lances."

Holliday threw down her napkin. "Oh come on, CeeCee. I don't believe that bullshit for a second. You're worried because you're gunning for Peter Nicholas' job."

Masterson shrugged. "True. He's gotten himself in trouble with Rhialla. Only a matter of time before I'm a lance commander again."

"Maybe. But it doesn't matter--Sheila don't care about who's screwing who. Hell, her XO is getting pronged by that big bastard Tooriu, and Elfa's his superior officer! Not that I blame her, mind…that boy could turn me straight."

Masterson rolled her eyes. "Everything about sex with you, girlfriend?"

"What else is there? Live fast, die young, that's me. 'Bout time we got into a unit that appreciates that. I loved Valendria Sheridan like my mom, but damn was she cautious." Holliday finished the rest of her wine. "Speaking of which, you heard where we're going?"

Masterson looked around, then leaned forward. "I don't really _know,_ mind you…I just heard it." She dropped her voice lower. "We're going back to Rasalhague space."

Holliday's eyes lit up. "Really? Wow!" She poured both of them more wine. "Back home, kicking Wolf ass. And we can do it now. New 'Mechs, new rides, new unit, and a commander who's not shit-scared of fighting. I propose a toast, Cecilia Cindee Masterson." She raised her glass.

Masterson clinked hers against it. "I couldn't agree more, Kassandra Carmilla Holliday. Hale and hearty until we're ninety." She drained her glass, then watched the dancers on the floor. "She's even a good _dancer._ I swear, Kassy, I'm going to find out what Bari _isn't_ good at."

"I know the answer to that one." Masterson felt Holliday's foot slide up her leg under the dress. She smoldered at Masterson. "I bet she doesn't know the first thing about _this._" The foot slid up higher.

Masterson smiled. "Hell, she's probably a natural prodigy at _that_, too. Well, Loverboy over there won't soon find out, I'll wager. Me, on the other hand…" She raised a hand. "Waitress, check please!"

* * *

It was 2135 Hours when Daniel Polycutt and Maysa Bari returned to the officers' quarters. To his surprise and relief, Marion Rhialla was not waiting with a shotgun loaded with white phosphorus. They paused at the door, then tried to speak at the same time. They laughed, then Polycutt spoke first. "I had a great time tonight, Maysa."

"Me too. It was the first time I've ever been dancing."

He dropped his voice and thumbed at the door. "Your guardian is that protective?"

"She's my mom, not my guardian…but no, not that. I've just never really been interested. In fact, she made me go to my junior prom on Grunwald. I hated it so much that I left early and walked ten kilometers back home."

"Was tonight…okay?"

"It was great, really." She looked at her shoes. "Well…I guess this is good night. Thank you for a wonderful, um, date."

He scratched the back of his head self-consciously. "We'll, uh, have to do it again, er…sometime?" He made it a question.

"Absolutely." Maysa hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Daniel. Until the next time." She winked and went inside the apartment. Polycutt rubbed his cheek, grinned at himself, and decided that the night was a success after all.

Inside, Maysa leaned against the door and tried to control her pounding heart. She had always suspected that boys did like her, though the assassin who had come on so strong to her had soured her on dating for awhile. Before, she was sure that people found her too clumsy, too gawky, or simply too much in love with grease and gun oil and dirty BattleMechs to want to get close. Now it had been proven to her that one boy liked her a great deal. She was glad that Daniel had been such a gentleman. He had even refused to slow dance with her, for fear that someone would see them. It was less a fear of Marion Rhialla than a fear for Maysa's reputation. That was good. She could take things slow. Any more than that, and for all her supposed saintliness, Maysa feared that it wouldn't be Daniel that would need to be controlled, but her.

She noticed that there was a distinct smell of alcohol in the room. She walked over and found Marion slumped on the sofa, asleep and very drunk, if the two bottles of ouzo were any indication. Despite her reputation as being a hard drinker, Marion actually rarely drank to excess; before the war with the Clans, Maysa couldn't remember a time when Marion had come home drunk, and even after the war started, maybe only three or four times. In any case, Marion never drank alone. Now she had. That worried Maysa, until she realized the cause: herself.

She felt tears well up in her eyes, and knew it must be hard for her guardian. Marion, well over fifty years old, knew that her own career as a MechWarrior was closer to its end, while Maysa, almost seventeen, was barely a year into hers. _The passing of the torch,_ Maysa thought. Except it was more than that. Marion tonight had come face-to-face with the very real fact that her little girl was growing up, and—if she survived the war—might be getting married, starting a family, and basically becoming an adult. Perhaps it was more than that: perhaps Marion was remembering a time when she had been Maysa and the boys had been courting her—something unlikely to happen now as an older woman, especially one with a waspish reputation as Marion now had. Certainly the confrontation with Elfa, who was obviously in love (or lust) with Tooriu, barely older than Maysa, had probably contributed to that. Maysa wiped her eyes; she had never realized that Marion Rhialla might be as lonely, tired, and scared as the rest of them. She seemed to be made of steel. Maysa remembered an old saying that had given her nightmares when she was little, the epitaph on a grave: _where you are, I once was. Where I am, you one day will be._

"You poor thing," she whispered, drawing a cover over Marion's unmoving form, the gentle rise and fall of her chest providing the only indication the older woman was still alive. "You've just about had enough of all this, haven't you? Well, Mama, you're too big for me to carry to bed, but I can do this…I'm not looking forward to PT in the morning, since you're going to have a hell of a hangover, but you'll be there anyway, before all of us, God bless you." She straightened Marion's legs out and turned her on her side, in case she threw up. "Not the best job, but the best I can do." She knelt down and kissed Marion on the forehead. "Drunk or sober, I love you, Mama."

Maysa was halfway to her own room when she heard Marion mumble, "I heard that."

"It's okay, Mama. I meant it. Good night." Maysa closed the door to her room.

* * *


	8. I Once Had a Comrade

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Second to last chapter of this story arc. The next one will have all the 'Mech action you can handle, I guarantee. I had originally intended for this arc to be longer, but it's getting increasingly more depressing, so I'm skipping some of the ideas I had. It's bad enough as it is, though I do have _some_ humor in here…_

_ I've come to realize that Mimi Stykkis has been mentioned in passing a lot in this story arc, so a little bit of explanation is in order, sort of—Mimi only appeared "in person" in the first few chapters of _Snowbird Ascendant,_ the first of these MechWarrior stories of mine. FYI, she's actually based on Shelley Hine from _Omaha the Cat Dancer _(as are the characters of Charles Badaxe, Maria Thyatis, and Samuel Bonner), since when I first put pen to paper to write these stories I was reading a lot of _Omaha_ at the time. _

_ The line "Mein Fuehrer, I can stand!" is a _Dr. Strangelove _reference, while Kahvi Falx's former appearance is based closely on Motoko Aoyama from _Love Hina.

_ And the songs sung at the end of the chapter? All of them are real. "I Love My Wife," "Mary Ann Burns," and "Brown Brown" are all filthy fighter pilot songs dating back to World War I, but I figured that MechWarriors might steal them too. As for the other songs, see "Music Corner" below._

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_SulliMike: Given how abrasive Marion is, I figured she'd be even worse when it comes to family. I wanted to make Dan Polycutt a gentleman—I figured there's too much "wham bam thank you ma'am" romances as it is._

_Flashpoint: Glad you liked it—who hasn't experienced the sort of stammering foolishness of a first date?! As for German cuisine, I couldn't agree more. (Sadly, the Heidelhaus used to exist in my hometown, but now it's just another steak place.)_

_Mosin: Thanks, and good to see you back! __ Now that you mention it, Maysa is a lot like Kaylee! I'm not a huge _Firefly_ fan, but I have watched it, and I was probably unconsciously influenced by Kaylee. In fact, I _know_ I was—Maysa _was_ playing tag with Louisa Arla-Vlata in a fashion not unlike Kaylee and River Tam not too long ago. I'd better be careful—don't want Joss Whedon suing me (though he's got some explaining to do about swiping from _Outlaw Star _and _Cowboy Bebop).

_Panzerfaust: It's a bit premature to talk about a wedding, but Maysa is only almost seventeen. (Does that make her jailbait? Hmm.) She's at that age where she thinks she's immortal and death hasn't really touched her yet personally. Like I said, in all these Battletech stories (mine and others), casual sex seems indeed part of that "eat, drink, and be merry" MechWarrior lifestyle, so I wanted to have some people who decide that, despite the odds, to wait until marriage. (Of course, this assumes that Maysa and Dan can wait that long, or _have _that long…)_

_Rogue: Nah, Elfa wasn't eavesdropping. Marion was just being her usual loud self._

_MUSIC CORNER: "Cannae Throw Your Granny" by the Tim Malloys, and "Big Balls" by AC/DC, though for some reason I was also listening to "Roy Fokker's Theme" from _Macross_ and "Danse Macabre"by Saint-Saens as well._

* * *

_Snowbirds SMCAT Command Post. Reichenberg_

_Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_20 October 3051_

Max Canis-Vlata came in to find his wife humming away happily as she signed various reports. "What're you so happy about?"

Sheila signed her name with a flourish, then leaned back in her chair. "Because that's the last damn request I have to sign today." Then she saw what Max was holding, and she soured. "You're a bastard."

"That's no way to talk to the man you love," Max said, dropping a new stack of reports on her desk.

She sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Give me a kiss and I'll forgive you."

Sheila complied, then flipped through the reports. "Oh hell. Why didn't I stay a MechWarrior? I mean, look at some of this crap!" She brandished one piece of paper. "This is for a dozen replacement medium laser lenses for Defiance B3Ms." Then she held up another. "Next is for three dozen rolls of toilet paper!" She tossed them down, then leaned over, head in her hands. "Oh man…and we've got that reception we're supposed to go to in an hour, too…this sucks." Sheila was wearing her formal uniform, complete with cape.

Max leaned over her shoulder. "Three dozen rolls of toilet paper? We're gonna need more than that."

"Hey, I'm leaving behind everything I can. I figure we'll field-requisition once we're hitting planets." Field requisition was military parlance for stealing. Though the Snowbirds would be taking along vouchers good for C-Bills, ComStar's universal money, anything not tied down was fair game. Sheila stared morosely at the stack of paper. "A thousand years after the invention of the computer, and we've still yet to achieve the paperless office." There was a knock on the door, and Sheila looked up. "Come in." When the person outside did so, both Sheila and Max nearly fell over from surprise. The last person they expected was Mimi Stykkis.

Sheila slowly stood, in utter shock. She had last seen her childhood friend and former Nagelring roommate lying in a hospital bed on Grunwald, unwilling to even look at Sheila in the latter's first and only visit. The Elemental that had struck her with its weapon arm had snapped her spine, and Mimi--who had always been athletic and even secretly moonlighted as an exotic dancer during their senior year, a fact that would've resulted in immediate expulsion had it been known—could no longer even walk. Yet here she was, standing in front of Sheila, the old impish smile on her face. "Hi," she said. "What's with the uniform? Is it some sort of Catholic holiday today or something?"

At the Nagelring, Mimi's irreverence when it came to religion had always aggravated Sheila to no end, but today Sheila barely heard her. "Mimi," she whispered, "is it really you?"

"Of course it's me, stupid! What kind of question is that?"

"But…you're…_standing!"_

Mimi looked down at herself and acquired an expression of comic shock. "Will you look at that?" She then looked up at Sheila. "Mein Fuehrer, I can stand!" She grinned. "Well, sort of, anyway."

Sheila came from around the desk. Mimi wore steel braces around her legs from heel to waist, and balanced on two canelike crutches. Nevertheless, they hugged fiercely, and Sheila could tell Mimi had put on a good amount of muscle in her upper body, which wasn't to be wondered at. She had worn her hair short in the Nagelring and immediately after, but now had let it grow out some and wore it in a long braid down the left side of her face. "You look great," Sheila said, and it was true: despite her obvious physical handicap, Mimi was looking as bright and vivacious as ever.

"Not too bad yourself, Lieutenant Commander," Mimi replied, slapping Sheila's stomach. "Geez. I'm out of it for a year and you go and get yourself promoted." She noticed Sheila's artificial arm and blanched a little, but didn't comment on it. Instead, she turned her grin on Max. "And got yourself a husband, I see. Hi, Max. Don't I get a hug?"

Max came over and gave Mimi a polite hug. He never understood Sheila and Mimi's friendship, as the two were polar opposites. Where Sheila tended to be reserved, even aloof, but generally respectful, Mimi was loud, boisterous, and never bothered controlling her mouth. While Max didn't hate Mimi in the least, neither was he particularly well-disposed towards her.

"What brings you to Sudeten?" Sheila asked, mainly to keep Mimi distracted: she looked about ready to say something to Max that all three would later regret.

"I'm still part of the Sentinels," Mimi said with a mock pout. "Calla has me assigned to the Iceberg's staff. I'm not looking forward to it. I made planetfall two hours ago and came straight over here. I'm kinda hoping you can find me a place in the Snowbirds."

"Geez, Mimi, I really don't have anything for you to do. I mean, you're welcome to help me with paperwork, but we're going on a deep raid." That much was already known via regimental rumor. "I'm not going to have much need for a staff there outside of the one I have." Sheila didn't have to fake sorrow. Mimi, to everyone's surprise including her own, actually had a knack for staff work. Her ability to solve complicated problems and brilliance at mathematics had been the only thing that had kept her from flunking out of the Nagelring.

"You mean, you need a MechWarrior." Mimi's pleasant demeanor instantly evaporated. Sheila nodded, hating herself for doing so, but without much choice. Mimi's face darkened, prepatory to going on a tirade, but she was cut off by a knock on the office door. "Come in," Max barked, his eyes never leaving the other woman. He had no intention of he or Sheila being subjected to the third degree. Another thing that Max had never liked about Mimi Stykkis was her sense of entitlement: Mimi didn't ask, she took.

Stefan Jones entered. He looked around the office, immediately sensed the tension, and came to attention. "Is this a bad time, Commander? I need to speak with you."

"Can it wait?" Sheila asked.

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry, but it can't."

Sheila relented and shooed Mimi out of the way; Stefan was a good man with a combat record going back to the War of 3039. She returned his salute. "At ease, MechWarrior. What can I do for you?"

"I request an immediate transfer, Commander."

Sheila leaned back against her desk, arms crossed. "I've already transferred you to Bravo Fire from Bravo Heavy, Stefan. I'd hate to do that again." Robert Copeland was already unpopular in the Snowbirds; having a MechWarrior request a transfer would only make things worse.

"Not to another lance, ma'am. Out of the Snowbirds."

Sheila was stunned. "Out of the battalion? Why?"

"I can't serve with her any longer, Commander. I know you're friends and all, but I just can't."

"Who?"

"Senefa Malthus."

Max shook his head. "What has she done to you?"

"Nothing, Major. I just can't serve with her any longer," Jones repeated. "I've had a talk with Major Jaggar over in Alpha Battalion, ma'am. He says he's got a spot open; one of his guys just retired." At the look on Sheila's face, Jones waved his hands in defense. "It's not what you think, Commander. We were having a drink last night, and it just came up. I served with Major Jaggar before I came over to the Snowbirds, that's all."

Sheila pushed herself off the desk. "Stefan, we're getting close to the time when we're moving out. Now I'm supposed to shoehorn someone new into Bravo Heavy? What if I can't find anyone? Am I supposed to let Lance Commander Copeland go out with a short lance?"

Jones looked at his boots. "Yes, ma'am, I know. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"What's the problem?" Sheila tried to keep her voice neutral and didn't succeed very well.

Now Jones' head came up, and he was angry. "Commander, I've lost good friends to the Jade Falcons. It was Malthus' 133rd Fusiliers who got Terry Nutter at the Valley! Now we're supposed to forgive and forget just because she throws in with us? I can't, Commander. I don't see how you can. I know she helped you escape, and she's supposedly shown remorse, but I just can't serve in the same battalion. With respect." Jones went back to attention.

"What if I order you to?" Sheila snapped.

Jones reached up and pulled off his shoulder boards. They were red, the color assigned to MechWarriors. "Then I'll resign and go regular, ma'am." He held them out to Sheila.

"It means that much? You've got seniority," Max told him. "You'd be up for the next available Lance Commander slot, if you want it."

"Yes, sir. It means that much."

Sheila fought down the urge to either throttle Jones or at the least bawl him out. She knew Jones was no slacker, nor was he a malcontent. That forced Sheila to take a figurative measure of herself. She and Senefa had become close, the result of shared experience that neither could talk about, and a feeling of near-sisterhood, forged on a battlefield, even when they had fought each other. Sheila was not so blind as to think the Snowbirds would accept Senefa without reservation, but she had thought that, after the rescue of the Vantaa Rangers, the battalion had come to include Senefa as one of their own. She had never suspected that some of them, like Jones, still disliked the ex-Clanswoman. _I still have a lot to learn about this job,_ Sheila thought to herself. _I don't know my people well enough. I should've seen this coming._ She closed her eyes for a moment, then reached out and closed Jones' hand over the shoulder boards. "No, Stefan," she said gently. "It won't come to that. Go over to Alpha Battalion's CP and get transfer orders. I'll sign them today."

"Then…you understand?" he asked incredously.

"No," Sheila answered, "I don't. But I won't see you throw away your career, either. You're too good a man for that."

Jones shuffled his feet, then put the boards back on and saluted Sheila. "Thank you, Commander…I'm sorry. I'll see if anyone in Alpha wants to take my place." He seemed to want to say something else, but ended up just turning on his heel and leaving, leaving silence in his wake.

Broken, predictably, by Mimi. "Well," she said with her smile returning, "looks like you _do_ have a spot open, Sheila."

"For a MechWarrior," Sheila said coldly. Mimi looked surprised, and Sheila turned to her. "Mimi, you of all people should know it's not fun and games anymore, like it was at the 'Ring. Now I have a short lance with a lance commander who's never been up against the Clans."

"Who is it, anyway?"

"Robert Copeland. He's our liasion officer."

"All the better." Mimi limped forward. "Sheila, I can still pilot. I've been cleared." At Sheila's expression of disbelief, Mimi reached into a pocket and handed her a signed release. Sheila scanned and handed it back. "All that says is that you can be returned to duty," Sheila told her. "It doesn't say shit about piloting a 'Mech."

"But I can!" Mimi insisted. "Look, Sheila—I have feeling below my waist. They fused my back. I just can't feel my legs below my thighs. With the braces on, though, I can still move my legs." She demonstrated. Mimi's movements were stiff, but adequate. "Sheila, they let guys and gals with artificial legs pilot 'Mechs—hell, they let them fly fighters, and there's a lot more leg movement there! It's not like my _Crusader_ has jumpjets. All I have to do is use the pedals and push them up and down."

Sheila considered that for a long moment. She then went to the door, opened it, and yelled for Marion Rhialla. Marion was rarely out of earshot of the CP, though the Snowbirds would argue as a whole that she was never out of earshot, period; certainly her voice could be heard all over the base. Marion arrived soon enough. "Can you come in here for a moment?" Sheila asked.

"Sure. What's up?" Marion walked in and gave a start when she saw Mimi. "Well, well, if it isn't Miss Stykkis, back from her enforced vacation."

"It was one shitty vacation," Mimi shot back. There was no love lost between Mimi Stykkis and Marion Rhialla: from when Mimi was a child up until she left for the Nagelring, she had taken great pleasure in tormenting Maysa Bari. Marion, always one to bear a grudge, had never forgiven her for it.

"Stefan Jones just quit," Sheila said, before either could renew their feud. "Mimi here has volunteered to take his place in Bravo Heavy."

Marion snorted. "What are we supposed to do, weld her to the cockpit?"

"I can do it," Mimi snapped.

"Right now, you couldn't kick your own ass," Marion retorted. "This is ridiculous, Sheila—"

Mimi, infuriated, slowly sat down, in more of a half-fall. Max stepped forward to help, but she waved him off, then threw her crutches to him. She moved her legs up and down, never wavering her gaze from Marion. "Hmpf," Marion sniffed. "Fine, you can move your legs. I'm sure you can do the rest, too. But tell me, Miss Stykkis, how are you supposed to get out of the 'Mech if it's burning?"

"I'll _eject_," Mimi said, as if to a slow three-year old.

"What if the ejection seat's broken? Are we supposed to sit there and just listen to you burn?" Neither Max nor Sheila could suppress a shudder; burning alive in a 'Mech was something that gave every MechWarrior nightmares.

Mimi's eyes smoldered. She reached down, placed her hands flat on the floor, and pushed upwards. Using the desk for leverage, she slowly, but determinedly, stood. She wavered and nearly fell, and sweat was running freely off her face, but she was upright. "Not fast enough," Marion proclaimed, though Sheila could tell that she was impressed. "You need to be able to do that in fifteen seconds, minimum."

Mimi began to lower herself back down, but Sheila caught her. "Enough," she said. "Mimi, you're assigned to the Snowbirds on a probationary basis. Marion, you make sure she can meet fifteen seconds and that she can pilot a real 'Mech, not an imaginary one. Ride her. I want to know how badly she wants this." Marion nodded, exchanging a look with Mimi that told the other woman Sheila's orders would be carried out with pleasure. Mimi merely inclined her head upwards, accepting the challenge. Marion gave her a ghost of a smile, saluted Sheila, and walked out, leaving Mimi to follow. Max handed back her crutches, Mimi resolutely stuck them under her shoulders, and she began to walk out. She paused on the threshhold. "You've changed," she told Sheila quietly.

"We all have."

"That's true." Mimi sketched a salute, then hobbled down the steps.

* * *

The incident with Stefan Jones and Mimi Stykkis threw a pall over the reception, but Sheila tried to make the best of it. She and Max danced, something they both enjoyed but rarely got a chance to do, the food was good, and even if the mood was somewhat grim on the news that the Clans were once more advancing, Sheila was enjoying herself. The Snowbirds had been given the next morning off, and had been invited to the reception, though only a few came—as Tooriu had stated, the "atmosphere was too rarified," and most had taken the night to catch up on sleep, or had hit the bars in Reichenberg, to seek somewhat baser company. Sheila wondered how many of her battalion she might have to bail out of jail the next morning.

Of the Snowbirds, besides Sheila and Max, she had spotted Daniel Polycutt and Maysa Bari, who were now apparently something of an item. That surprised her: it was generally assumed that Marion kept her adopted daughter under lock and key. They were obviously having a good time, and even from her current position along the periphery of the dance floor, Sheila could hear Maysa laughing at something Polycutt said. Mimi Stykkis was there, basking in the welcome of old friends and surviving members of the Stykkis clan, who at their height had seven MechWarriors in the Sentinels. That number was now down to three, including Mimi: the elder Stykkises had retired just before the Clan War, while Mimi's older brother and younger sister had been killed on Persistence and Planting respectively. Peter Nicholas was there, holding court with a group of younger MechWarriors from Beta Battalion; so was Robert Copeland, looking distinctly uncomfortable and at the party, Sheila was sure, only because his superior liasion officer, Allegra Grant, had ordered it. Shasti Buena was the only member of Delta Company to be present, and was currently helping the assembled orchestra by playing her fiddle. She was quite good at it, though once more she had rolled up the sleeves of her dress uniform to display her impressive tattoos.

"Good evening, Lieutenant Commander." Sheila looked over to see Lee Nakamura standing next to her. With the Clans on the move once more, he could come out into the open, as it were, as the official DCMS liasion to Morgan Hasek-Davion, and thus wore the red-trimmed white uniform of House Kurita. He wore two rows of campaign ribbons and the emblem of a stalking tiger in red, though Sheila had no idea what the decoration meant.

"Good evening, Chu-sa," Sheila politely returned. Nakamura had been present for further meetings on Rubicon, and had offered good suggestions, but remained standoffish. Sheila assumed that was because he was working with, after all, mercenaries.

Nakamura filled his plate with food from the buffet table. "If I attend any more of these parties, I'll need a new uniform," he remarked. "The AFFC does put on a good feed." He smiled at Sheila. "I don't see your husband around, Lieutenant Commander."

"Just call me Commander, Chu-sa…or Sheila; I don't mind. As for my husband, he's in the bathroom."

"Oh. Pardon me…and I'll use 'Commander,' if that's all right. It would be impolite for me to use your first name. In the Combine, that is done only with close acquaintances. Which reminds me, Commander—how good is your Japanese?"

"Not very," Sheila admitted. She had taken a year of it at the Nagelring, but had not done well in the course. "I can get around, I suppose. I can't read _kanji_ at all; if I didn't know that it says 'Kurita' on your uniform shoulders, I wouldn't know what to make of it."

"Interesting. What made you study Japanese?"

"I figured that it would help if I knew a bit about the enemy…at the time."

Nakamura smiled. "Yes, this war has made strange bedfellows." He ate some of the shrimp on his plate. "Hmm. Not bad—not Matsuida tempura, but not bad." He washed it down with some water, then nonchalantly said, "Commander, do you know a Kimiko Matsushima?"

Sheila gave a small start, and cursed herself for stepping neatly into a trap. In the Combine, it was quite common to talk around a subject for awhile, to make both sides comfortable, but it was also a good way to catch someone unawares. She knew Nakamura had caught her physical reaction, but Sheila did her best to cover it up. "Yes, I remember hearing something about her."

Nakamura raised an eyebrow, surprised at such a ready admission. "Oh?"

"I think Hohiro Kurita mentioned her in passing on Outreach." Sheila smiled thinly, turning the game back on Nakamura. It was a subtle reminder that Sheila herself knew high-ranking Kurita officials—namely the third in line for the Kurita throne.

"I would be surprised that the Heir to the Dragon would know of such a person," Nakamura continued, in a tone of voice that told Sheila he knew she was lying. "Granted, Tanadi Electronics is an important firm in the Combine, but the errant daughter of its CEO seems something that wouldn't be worthy of royal attention."

"I could be wrong," Sheila shrugged, keeping a straight face. "Who is she, anyway?"

"Hiro Matsushima is the head of Tanadi," Nakamura explained. "It seems he indulged his daughter's passion for becoming a MechWarrior a little too much. He got her appointed to Sun Zhang Military Academy on Kagoshima, and to everyone's surprise, she not only graduated but did so with honors. Quite an achievement for a woman."

"Yes, quite." Sheila's voice was icy.

"In the Combine, it is," Nakamura said quickly, realizing he had just offended her. "In spite of her mistreatment, even more so." He took another drink of water. "In any case, Director Matsushima had his daughter assigned to Tanadi as sort of a personal guard, though she protested and attempted to get into a unit heading towards the front. On her third attempt, she may have succeeded—she disappeared."

"Damn shame."

"Quite. There is a rumor that she may have even left the Combine…and come to the Federated Commonwealth." Nakamura surreptitiously watched Sheila. "Even to Sudeten."

"If I see her, I'll let her know you're interested." Sheila instantly regretted trying to make such an offhand remark: it was practically admitting Sheila knew who Nakamura was talking about.

"Splendid. Here's a picture of her." Nakamura reached into a pocket and handed Sheila a two-dimensional photograph of an unsmiling, rather severe looking teenage girl, who to Sheila's surprise, was wearing the traditional robes of a _miko,_ a Shinto shrine maiden. It was undoubtedly Kahvi Falx, though in the picture her hair was very long and combed into bangs over her forehead, instead of shoulder-length and braided. "In fact, she looks very much like that young woman over there." Nakamura pointed, and to Sheila's horror, Kahvi Falx was standing at the edge of the circle surrounding Peter Nicholas, drinking wine. Even at this distance, the resemblance was unmistakable. "Who is she?"

"Her? Kahvi Falx. One of my Snowbirds. She is of Japanese descent—New Kyoto." Sheila was thinking fast.

"Unusual name, especially for someone of Japanese origin."

"From what she told me, Kahvi is Ainu," Sheila lied smoothly. She had no idea where Kimiko had gotten her name from, but referencing the ancient aboriginal race of the Japanese home islands put some truth to the lie. Sheila knew nothing about the Ainu except their existence, but was sure Nakamura didn't either. "Falx is Latin, and it's an assumed name."

"A _nom de guerre?_ Why?" Nakamura looked like he almost believed her.

"Sorry, Chu-sa," Sheila said, "I'm not authorized to reveal personal information about my MechWarriors. And I am curious _why_ you're so interested."

"I was sent a personal message by Director Matsushima to be on the lookout for his daughter."

"To bring her back?" Sheila asked.

"Not myself, no. The Director would arrange something for that."

"I think the AFFC would not look kindly on that," Sheila warned. "Moreover, why would you want to? If Kimiko Matsushima came here to Sudeten—and I can assure you, Chu-sa, that she is not on the base to my knowledge—she came here to fight the Clans." Sheila resisted smiling at her little dodge. Kahvi Falx/Kimiko Matsushima was indeed not on Sentinel Base Sudeten, because the reception was at the Hyatt, off-base. "I would think that her father would be proud and greatly honored by his daughter's willingness to sacrifice everything, including possibly her life, to serve her country in the only means left to her. Isn't that the essence of a samurai? 'Death is a feather, duty is a mountain'? I know _I'd _be proud to have such a person in my unit."

Nakamura smiled and finished his water. "Indeed, Commander. As would I." Now Sheila knew he had seen through her flimsy story, but also understood her point. Whatever else she was, Kahvi/Kimiko was of a samurai family, one of ancient lineage, and to keep her from doing her duty was dishonoring both her and her family. Taking her back to her father now would almost certainly end in her suicide, which Sheila regarded as a complete waste—and from Nakamura's expression, he agreed. "Tell me, Commander—what grade did you get in your Japanese course?"

"A C-," Sheila admitted. "The _kanji_ killed me."

"But I imagine you scored high on the cultural part…you certainly understand our code of _bushido._" He poured himself another glass of water. "Ah, here's your husband. Well, good evening, Commander. I will tell the ISF to look elsewhere." He left, smiling, even as Sheila repressed a shudder. Nakamura would not interfere with Kahvi Falx, but he was subtly warning Sheila that there were others who felt otherwise—namely the Internal Security Force, the feared secret police of House Kurita. _Oh well,_ Sheila thought, _the ISF has better things to do than track us on Rubicon after we leave Sudeten._ It would be a problem when and if they reached the Combine, but she could always simply restrict Kahvi to the DropShip, where she would not be seen.

"Hey, gorgeous." Max came up beside her and kissed her cheek. "Sorry about that…Copeland caught me coming out of the can and tried to talk my ear off." He nodded towards the departing Nakamura. "What was his problem?"

"No problem. He thought he'd seen Kahvi before, that's all. I'll tell you later." Sheila's father was approaching, and the last thing Sheila wanted was to burden him with her problems. "Hi, Dad."

"Hey, kid—hey, Max." Calla thumbed towards Nakamura. "What was his problem?"

"No problem," Sheila and Max said simutaneously.

"Uh huh—now I know you're lying." Calla winked at Max. "Not to interrupt you two, but I'd like the honor of a dance with my daughter, if'n you don't mind."

"No problem," Max repeated. Calla swept Sheila into the waltzing dancers, Sheila missing a step and nearly getting her spurs tangled into her cape. Max suspected that Calla wanted to spend some time with her; the two had barely spent more than a few hours together since Sheila had arrived on Sudeten. He didn't begrudge his father-in-law at all. Sheila and Calla had always been close, and there was the very real possibility that one of them might die in the near future—Sheila on Rubicon, Calla on Sudeten.

Max watched them for a long while, sipping at some punch. He had just decided to go and strike up a conversation with Daniel and Maysa when he felt someone come up beside him. Max turned and nearly jumped in surprise: it was his own father.

* * *

Todd Canis was taller than his son and more broad; Max had taken after his mother's skinny frame. He held a can of soda stiffly, which Max knew was the result of a steel shoulder replacement, and his right eye was covered with a patch. Todd had a glass eye, but rarely wore it. His face was deeply scarred over its right side, and Max remembered being shocked at seeing a holo of his father's unscarred face before the Fourth Succession War. A Liao _Transit_'s strafing run had nearly blown off the head of Todd's _Crusader_, putting him out of action for nearly a year and resulting in a painful shoulder replacement and an artificial eye. The surgery had been done hurriedly by an overworked doctor on Shensi, and as a result Todd suffered from chronic pain. Afraid of becoming addicted to painkillers, Todd had found whiskey to be an adequate substitute—and wound up becoming addicted to alcohol instead. His drinking had nearly destroyed his marriage: Mira Canis _nee_ Bighorn-Vlata had been so infuriated with her husband's refusal to quit "going out with the boys" to the bars that she had virtually cut off all communication with him, even taking lovers in revenge. They obstensibly remained married for the good of Max, though Max wondered how a broken home, early morning shouting matches, and blatant adultery was supposed to be "good" for him. He had worked hard to get a scholarship to the New Avalon Military Academy, and had been relieved to go. All of this went through Max's mind in the scant seconds father and son confronted each other.

"Hello, son," Todd said.

"Hi, Dad," Max returned. There was an awkward silence that went on too long, and then Max spoke, mainly just to say something, "You're looking good."

"Thanks," Todd replied. Actually, Max considered, his father _did_ look good. Though they had only rarely spoken since the wedding on Outreach, Max knew his father had stopped drinking and that he and Mira were back on speaking terms. There was a certain something in Todd that Max had not seen since he was very little. "Not too bad, yourself," Todd added, motioning at his son. "Say…can we go talk somewhere a little quieter? My hearing isn't what it once was, you know."

"Sure," Max replied, and followed his father out of the reception hall. It still felt awkward. Unlike Sheila and Calla, Max had never felt close to his father.

The reception hall was actually atop the tall Hyatt, and the hallway that ran outside of the hall faced inwards, to the gigantic, 12-story open interior. A solid concrete core that held glass elevators supported balconies that led to the various floors of the huge hotel. Far below was the hotel restaurant, front desk, bars, and atrium. The hallway was deserted, and rather quiet. Todd leaned against the balcony, folding his hands in front of him over empty space. Max took up a position beside him, unconsciously aping his father's stance, and waited. Obviously something was on the elder Canis' mind.

"Did you mean that?" Todd suddenly asked. "About me looking good."

"Yes, sir," Max told him.

Todd half-smiled. "You know, Max, I think you've earned the right not to call me 'sir.' Hell, we're the same rank now." Max smiled too, self-consciously: he and his dad _were_ both Majors. "Took me almost ten years to make Major, and you've done it in less than one."

His tone sounded disapproving, so Max said, "Sorry."

"Don't be! I'm proud of you, son. Really, I am." Todd stared off into space. "I haven't said enough of that. That I'm proud of you. But I am, Max. I've always been proud of you."

Max didn't like the way the conversation was going. It sounded too much like a deathbed confession. "Dad…are you…all right?"

Todd looked at him quizzically, then chuckled when he realized what Max was asking. "Jesus. That _did_ sound awfully friggin' mauldin, huh? Sorry." They shared a grin, something they had not done in a long time. "No, Max, I'm not dying or anything. Though I oughta be, the way I've abused my guts and liver. I just got to thinking—which is always a mistake—about how much time I've wasted." His smile faded, and he turned back to staring out over the balcony. "That happens when you get old, I'll warn you right now." He shrugged. "Now if this was a holovid, which I'm fairly certain it isn't, this is where I'd tell you not to make your old man's mistakes. But I'm not gonna. You know why?" Max shook his head. "Because you're already smart enough not to. That and the fact that I'm contrary as well as ornery."

He trailed off into silence, and Max wondered if he should say something. "I'm not sure what you want me to say to that."

"Nothing. It's just that…" Todd looked at his hands, which were also scarred; Max was briefly reminded of Mimi Stykkis, remembering why his father's hands were scarred. Todd had had to pry off the burning cockpit hatch of his _Crusader,_ as the ejection seat had failed. "Max, I fucked up. I don't mind telling you that now…you're a man, old enough to know. I hurt your mom, and I hurt you. Now I won't carry all the load—I never ran around on your mom, though Gina Carabinera tempted the hell out of me one night in '43 after about ten tequila shooters—but she did on me. That's okay. I probably deserved it. Anyone, I got to thinking the other night that I've never apologized to you."

"You don't have to, Dad."

"Horseshit. Yes, I do." Todd was looking at his son, but seemed to look through him. "I ran with Hansen's Roughriders before I met your mom and Calla, when they were forming the Sentinels in '26. I went merc because I hated my dad so much I refused to join the Capellan Armed Forces. He was a hard drinking man too—he drove off my ma, though I never knew her. The night I left, I was only fourteen. I told him to go to hell, and he said he'd see me there—before he threw a whiskey bottle at me. That was the last time I ever saw him. He got himself killed a few months later, squaring off with two Demolishers—and him in a _Cicada._ Either way, I've hated him all my life, son…until about a year ago, when we left Persistence. I got drunk, passed out, and woke up in the head on the _Great Speckled Bird._" He referred to one of Alpha Battalion's DropShips. "I looked in the mirror and I _saw_ him, Max, I saw my pa. Except it was me. I became the man I hated the most—more than I hated Max Liao, more than I hated Natasha Kerensky for blowing the shit out of my _P-Hawk_ on Hesperus II, more than I hated the Capellan son of a bitch who did this to me." He pointed to his eyepatch.

"I stopped drinking that night, Max, and I haven't touched a drop since. And I won't, either." Todd winked at his son. "After about two months drying out, which were _not_ fun, I slipped into your mom's bed. Took her by surprise, but I think she appreciated being ambushed and taken from the rear." Max turned red, and Todd laughed. "I'll spare you the gross details, son. Suffice to say that Mira and I are back together. We're still going to counseling, but I think I'm gonna get it right this time. I'm gonna try anyway." He looked at the ceiling. "The whole point of this long and boring discourse is this: you're shipping out in a week or so." Todd held up his hands. "Don't ask me how I know, Max; I _know_. Call it old bastard's intuition. Either way, we're both old enough to know what the odds are that you might get killed out there or I might get killed right here."

He turned to Max and put his hands on his hips. "Either way, I don't want your last memory of your old man to be like mine. I'm not asking necessarily for your forgiveness. Either you've already forgiven me like the good Christian guy you are, or you hate me enough to pitch me over the goddamn balcony and you won't forgive me no matter what stupid thing that comes out of my mouth. But son…I just wanted to say that." Todd looked suddenly drained and old.

"Did Mom put you up to that?" Max asked after a long silence.

Todd laughed. "You caught me. Yeah, she did. But she's right." He shook his head. "Guys like me, Max, we don't wear our emotions on our sleeve. Our generation never did. You tough it out." He sighed. "Damn glad I got that out my system, though. Just in case."

Max reached out, hesitated, then patted his father on the back, something he had never done. "I'm sorry, Dad…about it all."

"Yeah. Me too." Todd put his arm around his son, and steered them back towards the reception. "Shit. This calls for a drink, but I'm not drinking anymore! Oh well, guess I'll get a sugar high off this damn swill they call soda. In the meantime, Max, tell your dirty old man of a father—what's your record for getting Sheila off? Mine stands at five. Just in case I get cacked on Sudeten, I gotta know how my fair-haired boy is doing!"

Nine months ago, Max would've been offended by his father's crudity. Now he laughed with his father. Both men knew there was a long way to go before they recaptured their easy familiarity of Max's childhood, but it was a start.

* * *

The rest of the reception went well, and ended in Shasti Buena leading the gathered in several ribald songs with her fiddle, including such ditties as one about not being able to throw one's granny off of a bus (and for Takashi Kurita to shove his samurai sword up his ass, which Shasti sang despite the horrified looks from Nakamura and Kahvi); another about Mary Ann Burns, Queen of the Acrobats; one for the husbands in the crowd called _I Love My Wife, _which got progressively more disgusting; and the equally gross song _Brown Brown_ about the galaxy being covered with feces. No one seemed offended, least of all Morgan Hasek-Davion, who despite being the Marshal of the Armies was belting out the sickening choruses with the rest of them. The party was going full swing when Sheila had found Max and told him it was time to retire; she was more than a little tipsy, and Max had already found out that alcohol tended to fuel Sheila's already diesel libido. As he led her out, Todd left off the chorus of the ancient ditty _Big Balls_ and grabbed his son's elbow. "Now you remember what I told you, son," he grinned. "Five times."

Max wasn't sure Sheila would make it to their room, but he nodded. "I'll send you a report."

"Damn right." He mussled a bemused Sheila's hair, then went back to screaming about he had the biggest balls of all with the still-strong crowd; by now Todd was probably the last sober one there, since Dan Polycutt had obediently taken Maysa home four hours before.

"Whadd he mean by five times?" Sheila slurred.

"You'll find out," Max told her, and they began to head towards the room.

Unfortunately, Max was unable to break his father's record or even come close, though not for a lack of trying. Afterwards, he stared at the ceiling while a stupefied Sheila curled up next to him and promptly fell asleep. He tried to relax as well, but he simply couldn't shake the feeling that he would never see his father again.


	9. Never Call Retreat

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Last chapter of this story arc.  I've already begun to work on the next one, so I'll have that up soon.  _

_   I felt that the story was starting to get too long and too depressing, so I truncated a few scenes here.  I really tried to make Sheila's speech not sound cliché or too much like I was borrowing stuff, but inevitably my long years of watching war movies crept in here, so I apologize for the _We Were Soldiers_ ref.  (I won't apologize for the little bit of John Wayne's _Longest Day _speech, since that's actually what Vandevoort said on the eve of D-Day.)  I also hope Louisa doesn't come across as too calm (or worse, a sociopath), but I have a tough time writing a six-year old's feelings.  I remember my own when my dad had to go off on long deployments during his time in the military; they were much like Louisa's.  _

_    I wanted to finish _Snowbird's Rubicon_ on a hopeful note, so I must've went through a dozen songs to end the story.  All of them were good (and some of them are below in the Music Corner section), but all of them had the same problem of copyright.  gets understandably sensitive when it comes to that.  Then a version of "Battle Hymn of the Republic" by Mannheim Steamroller came on, so I went with that, since the lyrics are public domain.  Plus it seemed to fit the scene pretty well.  Yes, it's a religious song, but it's also an icon of American history in particular, and moreover, there are no atheists in foxholes—or BattleMechs.  With apologies to Barack Obama, but soldiers very much cling to guns and religion because one keeps them alive and the other gives them hope.  I make no apologies about that, either._

_   Anyway, enjoy…_The Race of the Snowbirds _will be up soon.  _

_REVIEWER'S CORNER: _

_Panzerfaust: We'll see about Todd Canis, but I've probably given away the farm with him.  And you're absolutely right on Mimi._

_Mosin: The theme of that section was kind of "friends grow up and apart," and Sheila and Mimi have been apart for a long time.  Thanks for your comments on Max; sometimes I think I've been neglecting him in favor of Sheila.  True, the story is about her, but still._

_FraserMage: Yep.  Uh oh…_

_(Where's the rest of you turkeys at? R&R, dammit!)_

_MUSIC CORNER: "True Faith" by New Order (which I had originally used), "The Final Countdown" by Europe, "Voices of Babylon" by The Outfield, "Burning Bridges" from the _Kelly's Heroes_ soundtrack, and of course "Battle Hymn of the Republic."_

_SDS _Minerva

_Outbound from Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth_

_28 October 3051_

   Sheila Arla-Vlata stared out of the thick transparisteel window of the _Minerva_.  Sudeten filled the lower half of the window.  They had already passed out of the atmosphere, though it would be another day or so before they reached their JumpShip, the _Back of Beyond._  She was alone on the tiny observation "deck," though a more proper term would be compartment.  The last eight days had passed in a blur, but at last the day had come: the Snowbirds were outbound.  Operation Rubicon had begun.

   Sheila looked out among the stars.  Some of them were moving—inbound or outbound DropShips coming into Sudeten.  Among one of them was Louisa Keynes, now formally Louisa Arla-Vlata.  Max and Sheila had signed the adoption papers three days before, making things official.  If something happened on Rubicon, Louisa would still bear their name—or Sheila's, who had changed her name from Bighorn-Vlata to Arla-Vlata to honor her mother's family, which was traditional among the people of Quantraine, where Sheila's mother hailed from.  Max had chosen to keep his own surname.  Neither asked the other to change.  Whatever the case, Louisa was now the heir to fifteen unbroken generations of MechWarriors, the Vlata name that stretched back before the Star League.

   There was a good chance that she might become the _sole_ heir.  Sheila and Max were heading into the unknown, while Calla and Arla were staying on Sudeten to defend the planet against the encroaching Jade Falcons.  If all four were to die—certainly not impossible—then Louisa alone would carry on.  Louisa had been evacuated with the last of the Sentinel children to Grunwald, where she would be taken care of by Arla Bighorn-Vlata's mother, now approaching seventy.  Louisa would find Beatrice Nonnius tough but fair.

    Sheila wasn't sure how Louisa would take being separated after being together a little over a month.  The little girl clearly cherished Sheila and Max—love was probably too much to hope for in such a short time—and didn't want to be separated from them.  But when Sheila had broken the news to Louisa that she would be staying with her new great-grandmother for a few months, Louisa had merely nodded and said, "Okay."  Sheila was stunned, not sure if it was shock or merely six year old faith: Mom and Dad fought the bad guys, so that meant they had to be gone sometimes.  They had done everything they could to spend all the time they could spare to make Louisa's last week on Sudeten fun, but even Louisa could sense the sword of Damocles over their heads.  When they had finally parted the day before, Sheila and Max had been unable to hold back their tears, but Louisa had.  She had given them a heartbreakingly gentle smile, said, "Goodbye, mama; goodbye, papa," and walked aboard the DropShip with all the dignity in the universe, rabbit slung over one shoulder like a rifle and Boo Boo Kitty backpack bouncing along, like she was going off to school.  Neither Max nor Sheila would ever know that Louisa's inhuman reserve lasted until the DropShip had lifted off, whereupon she had burst into uncontrollable sobs, convinced that this time, she truly was alone, that there would be no third pair of mommies and daddies to save her.

    Max himself had been morose over the past few days, Sheila thought, though he had covered it well.  While he didn't seem depressed as such—certainly he had reduced her to a quivering mass the night of the party, though Sheila had been fairly into her cups at the time—he did seem uncharacteristically melancholy.  Max had told her that there was nothing wrong, that he and his dad had mended fences, but something else had happened, and Sheila had been afraid to ask.  During the final loading of the DropShips the Snowbirds would be taking on Rubicon—the _Minerva_ for the MechWarriors, the _Cambrai_ for the tank crews and Charlie Heavy lance, and the supply ships _Aspen_ and _Bellenda_—Max had seemed to be looking for something, or someone.  From the disappointed look that he had when they had finally raised ship, Sheila knew that Max had not found what or who he was looking for.  She suspected she knew who it was.  Since Rubicon was secret, there was no grand ceremony of leave-taking.  The supply ships had left the day before, two more anonymous DropShips, and the Snowbirds were obstensibly going on extended exercises in the southern part of Sudeten's main continent.  Still, Calla had come to shake hands with a few of the Snowbirds, which caused misgivings among the warriors, since the regiment's commander wouldn't be coming out to bid them goodbye for a mere exercise.  Nor would he had enfolded Sheila in a fierce hug that both tried to prolong as much as possible.  Sheila had thought that she had seen more people gathered in the armored observation lounge of the DropPort as they lifted off, but it was hard to tell.

    "Sheila?" Max's voice cut through her thoughts.  She turned to face him.  "The battalion's assembled."

    "Thanks."  She walked towards him and suddenly hugged him, tears running down her face.  "Max," she whispered, "am I doing the right thing?"

    "Yes," he answered.  "You're doing all you can do."  He kissed her forehead and gently wiped away her tears.  "The Snowbirds need Commander Arla-Vlata right now, babe."

    Sheila understood.  She wiped her face, composed herself, took a deep breath, straightened her uniform, and walked resolutely onto the cavernous 'Mech bay of the _Minerva._  "Attention on deck! Commanding officer present!" Max barked out, and the men and women gathered there snapped to attention.  There was no dais, so Sheila climbed up on the foot of Kaatha's _Griffin._   "At ease," she told them, and they went as one to an at rest position.  From monitors placed in the corners of the 'Mech bay, the crews and Snowbirds on the other ships could see her.

    She looked out over them and felt a burst of pride and deep emotion.  She knew these people.  There was Kaatha, Marcus Drax, and Frederick Matria.  Tessya Blackthorn, who had adorned her hair with feathers for the occasion.  Philip Scott, who grinned at her; Kassy Holliday, whose black mohawk stood in direct contrast with Felisanna's pink one.  Chuck Badaxe, who looked out of sorts, since his girlfriend Maria Thyatis was on the _Cambrai._  Cecilia Masterson, who looked as if she could barely contain herself in excitement.  Mary Scott, who once hated Sheila and now maintained a crisp at-ease position; Senefa Malthus, who had twice nearly killed Sheila and now was her best friend.  Maysa Bari, who winked at her, surprisingly not in tears herself, but looking all too eager to get back into the fight.  Daniel Polycutt, who stood behind Maysa to her right, and Marion Rhialla, who stood behind Maysa to her left and occasionally shot Polycutt proprietary glances.  Mimi Stykkis, who balanced steadily against the subtle rocking of the DropShip on her braces.  The Drakon twins, who looked like mirror images now more than ever. Shasti Buena, the sole tanker aboard the _Minerva_, having designated herself the liasion. The old veterans, Alfred Dennison, Glynnis Griffin, John Lawson, and Megan O'Reilly, who merely looked bored.  Robert Copeland and Kahvi Falx, who stood nervously apart from the others, part of the Snowbirds yet isolated in their own minds. The techs, who perched on the 'Mechs like monkeys in the trees, mainly because there wasn't anywhere else left to stand—except for Nicia Caii, who had insisted on coming along and managed to convince Calla to let her go. All the rest, all Snowbirds, all Sheila's to wield in combat and hopefully get home alive.  They were more than her comrades in arms: they were her family.

     "Snowbirds," Sheila began, controlling the quaver in her voice, "all of you are quite aware by now that this isn't an exercise."  Grins broke out among the gathering.  "We're going out.  I can't tell you our next stop, but I can tell you that these ships are going to Clan occupied territory."  She paused for a minute, gathering her thoughts, but was interrupted by a sudden clapping.  It was Bien Canonizado.  Then Nicia Caii added her hands, then Larry Stohr, then Tooriu Kku let out a whoop, and suddenly the _Minerva_ was alive with cheers, whistles, yells, and clapping.  Sheila raised her hands to get them to quiet down. 

     "The name of this operation is Rubicon, because there is no going back.  This is going to be a raid, but it's going to be more than that.  We're not just hitting one planet, but several.  Our job will be to destroy Clan supplies, what we don't take for ourselves, kill Clanfolk, assist resistance units where we can, and hopefully get the Clans to chase their tails trying to find us.  Make no mistake: we're out here to wreak as much havoc as we can. 

     "We can't win the war on our own, but we can take some of the pressure off our friends on the firing line.  We can't liberate planets, but we can give them hope that they haven't been forgotten.  And most of all, we can show the Clans that we're not afraid of them, that we can hit back and hurt them. 

     "We're going to raid right across the Clan zones, fighting the Jade Falcons, the Wolves, and hopefully the others too.  It's going to be a rough fight.  Most of us have fought the Clans before, and we know they are tough, mean warriors.  We just have to  be tougher and meaner. 

      "Some of us won't be coming home."  Sheila paused again, but she had to say it.  "We know that.  We know that people will die, some of them our friends, some of them our family, but all of them our comrades.  It's just a simple fact.  I wish I could change that, but I can't.  All of us will give something, but some of us will give everything.

     "I will promise you that I will do my best as your commander and as your friend.  I am honored to be going into battle with you.  I can't guarantee that I'll keep all of you alive, but I _will_ guarantee that I will be the first off the DropShip and the last onto it.

      "For the past month, I have worked alongside you, ate alongside you, slept alongside you, fought alongside you, and lived alongside you.  Now, Snowbirds, I have to ask you to follow me.  We will take the war to the enemy, and we will win."

      Sheila had hit the end of her prepared speech, but she felt like she needed to add more.  "I believe that the next few months will decide this war.  The Snowbirds have given a lot, but now we have to give once more.  I know we can beat the Clans—I wouldn't have dragged you out here if I didn't believe that.  We _must_ win.  Otherwise, we lose it all.  I've lived in Clan captivity.  It's not something I will repeat." 

      Sheila stopped.  She had run out of words.  She came to ramrod attention and saluted them.   An Achilles might have told his warriors to grasp immortality, a Cortez that his conquistadores would sail into history, or an Armistead that his men were fighting for Virginia.  Sheila tried none of those things: the Snowbirds would see them as cheap theatrics.  They fought for each other and for their own reasons, in their own way, and that was enough.  The assembled came to attention and returned the salute solemnly and quietly.   

     "Dismissed," Sheila told them, but there was a hesitation among the crowd.  A few started to drift off, but then, Shasti Buena began to sing:

_Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord_

_He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored_

_He has loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword_

_His truth is marching on._

   Then Tooriu joined in, followed closely by Maysa, then the entire 'Mech bay reverberated as the battalion added their voices.

_Glory, glory, hallelujah_

_Glory, glory, hallelujah_

_Glory, glory, hallelujah_

_His truth is marching on!_

   Sheila felt her eyes mist.  The Snowbirds came from at least four different religions and eight different subsects of each religion, and several were agnostics or outright atheists.  Yet now everyone was singing.  It was more than a religious song; it was a song sung by men over a thousand years before any of them had been born, a song sung by men who were fighting to set other men free.  It was a song of hope that good would eventually triumph despite long odds.

_He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat_

_He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement seat_

_Oh, be swift my soul to answer Him, be jubliant, my feet_

_Our God is marching on._

    The whole DropShip was singing now: the crew, the techs, the MechWarriors.  The others were singing as well.  Max turned to Sheila and mouthed the word "Wow."  She nodded, even as she sang the chorus: it was a moment none present would ever forget.

_Glory, glory, hallelujah_

_Glory, glory, hallelujah_

_Glory, glory, hallelujah_

_His truth is marching on!_


End file.
